The Luck of Dennis St. Michel, Viscount Stokington

The Pocketbook

2008-09-23T13:34:00.000-07:00

“So where, precisely, is he?”

Gus pointed. “Down in yon salon, your Lordship.”

I shaded my eyes with one hand. “And his horse?”

“Reined in out front and yonder,” said young Jase. “I seed it me own self. Right nice horse.”

“Good,” I said. “And you three know what to do?”

Gus, Jase, and Hil nodded soberly. The crowded street was thick with the usual fug of odors inconsiderable, and swarming with hawkers, thieves, and prostitutes. The old Tudor buildings leaned in from either side, blocking off the sky and turning the street into a tunnel. We loitered in the entrance to an alleyway, my three young skylarker friends slouching rudely against the rough stone walls.

“Remember,” I said to Gus, “‘tis very important that you do not outdistance me, but do not let him catch you.”

“Right.”

“There he be,” squeaked Hil, gesturing with one twig-thin arm.

“Here we go,” I said, and began to proceed down the street towards our quarry. He was a young man dressed elegantly in silk and brocade, his handsome face only slightly lined by war. If he was the worse for drink, he did not show it, but even at this distance I could tell he was less alert than he ought to be. His longish auburn hair fell into his eyes, and his demeanour was of a man with few cares in the world.

I reached his steed mere moments before he did, and as I passed the beast I deliberately stepped in one of its droppings, sacrificing an excellent boot for our cause. As he untied the horse, I called to him. “I say, you there!”

His head snapped up. “Who calls?”

“I do. I say, are you the owner of this infernal creature?” I asked, gesturing violently towards the horse.

His handsome face took on a pugnacious cast. “I am, sir. And what concern is it of yours?”

“This foul beast,” I said, my voice quivering with manufactured rage, “has defecated in the street, and befouled my boots. I suggest you exhibit some control over it.”

“Perhaps if you had watched your step, you should have avoided it,” he said nastily. I strode over to him and poked him in the chest with a finger.

“My boots are ruined. I would very much like to know who will pay for them!” My angry tones echoed through the stifling street, drawing looks from passersby.

At that signal, Gus and his two cronies came trotting ‘round the corner. The young man paid them no mind, but I kept watch on them out of the corner of my eye as they loped down the street like stripling wolves, neatly dodging skirts and weaving between sweating artisans.

As the young man summoned what was to be without doubt some cutting remark, Gus gracefully collided with him, squirming between us with ease as he jostled both of us. The young man staggered backwards, but caught himself. As he regained his balance, I said, “Are you all right, man?”

“Fine,” he said, dusting himself off.

“Why, I do believe that rascal picked your pocket,” I said.

The young man hastily patted his pockets. “By God, you’re right!”

“There he goes!” I shouted, and dashed off after Gus. The boy gave me a merry chase, as I was forced to dodge between hoi polloi who stared after me, startled. At last I caught him, when he had decided the chase was convincing enough. I made as if to box his ears, and he in turn emitted some most believable yelps. As we grappled, I said to him in a low voice, “Have you the pocketbook?”

“Got it, lordship,” he replied in an equally low tone. Finally, I seized him by the ear and loudly declaimed, “Hand it over, you thieving rapscallion.”

Making a great show of reluctance, he handed me the offending article. “‘Tis a fair cop, sir.”

I clipped him behind the ear and he dashed off. Panting slightly, I returned to the young man, who had apparently been loath to leave his horse unbound. “Here it is; the blighter gave me quite the chase for it.”

“My thanks, most humble and extensive,” he said, taking the pocketbook with great eagerness. He quickly opened it, and let out a dismayed cry. “‘Tis empty! I am undone!”

“The whoreson!” I swore fervently, causing the other man to gasp at my vulgarity. “He must have removed its contents before I apprehended him! What a blow!”

The young man clapped a hand to his forehead. “‘Twas nearly a hundred pounds! My captain shall have my head,” he moaned.

“Only a hundred?” I said.

“‘Only’ a hundred?” he scoffed. “That is nearly two years’ pay.”

I reached for my own pocketbook. “In truth, I am at fault, sir. Had I not raised a fuss over the trifling matter of a bit of dung, you should not have been distracted and allowed that rapscallion to rob you. Here, allow me to recompense you.”

“No, no,” he said, pushing my proffered bills away. “Had I not been so careless as to lash my horse to the post in the street, none of this would have happened. Keep your money.”

I placed a carefully composed look of extreme sobriety upon my face. “Sir, my honour will not permit me to allow you to go forth empty-handed. Man, mind yourself is the first commandment, and if you shan’t mind yourself, I must do it for you. Please take this.”

At last he relented, taking the bills with only the greatest of efforts. “Sir, you are too kind. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

I doffed my hat. “Dennis St. Michel, Viscount of Stokington, at your service,” I said, and made a bow.

“And I am Lieutenant Jasper Dithers, likewise at your service,” he replied.

“Hopefully those funds shall make your day a bit more pleasant.”

“Without doubt, my Lord. The gaming halls of London shall tremble with fear tonight!” he laughed.

“A sportsman, eh? My friends and I are planning a small soiree some nights hence; perhaps you would like to join us?”

“Oh no, I daren’t; I am afraid your company is too lofty for the likes of myself,” he protested.

“Nonsense,” I said heartily. “Thursday night, for certain. A small but cozy casino in Knightsbridge called Duke’s. Please, be there with my invitation.”

“Perhaps,” he said, smiling, but I could tell he would be there for certain. “Perhaps.”

“‘Til Thursday,” I said, and turning, strode back up the street. After I had turned the corner, I found Gus and Jase sitting atop a small dilapidated cassone that had mysteriously been deposited in the street.

“Well?” I said.

Gus shrugged. “Hil’s nipped back around to stick the mopusses back in the jemmy fellow’s saddlebag.”

“Good,” I said.

“Whyn’t we just keep it?” asked Jase.

“Because we are not thieves,” I said sternly. “Now come, let us away. Young Gus needs to be fitted for a suit.”

“A suit? Why?” he whined.

“It will all become apparent,” I said confidently, as I led the two boys away. The first encounter with the enemy had gone swimmingly. I optimistically hoped the second would as well. Well, as I would later learn, optimism is for fools and Irishmen. The first major kink in my plan was just around the corner.

The Poet

2008-09-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

Walker and I had quit London for the moment, traveling some sixty-odd miles to Suffolk, where there are more horses than men. Newmarket itself had a rustic, charming quality about it, and as we strode through the high street we carefully avoided the larger puddles. The streets were thronged with followers of the turf, each man clutching a folio of bills as though it were his own child. We passed two men, one tall, one short, both arguing inanely over their losses and how they would explain them to the tall one’s wife. Every variety of man under the sun roamed and caroused. It was a good day for the bet-takers.

“Our mutual friend Dithers’ banker is a fellow by the name of Battle-Crownes. Oliver Battle-Crownes,” said Walker.

“Describe him to me,” I said, neatly sidestepping a cart loaded with manure.

“Bald and brainless,” said Walker bluntly. “Full of vim, you know?”

“Right. Over-enthusiastic and under-cautious. I know the type.”

“A bit of a philanthropist, helping orphans, donating to all manner of charities.”

“A do-gooder.”

“Very much so. Does he figure well in your plan?” asked Walker.

“Indeed he does. Your information has been most helpful,” I said.

As we made our way to the track, the crowd seemed to congeal, the nattily dressed toffs hastily attempting to keep their distance from a raggedy figure. Unfortunately for myself, I was swept by the pull of the crowd into the beggar’s presence. A tattered and worn man, his eyes burned from some madness that welled from within. In his arms he clutched a ginger moggie of truly terrifying proportions, whose matted fur and scowling visage, coupled with its extreme heft, provided a nightmare worthy of Bosch.

“It speaks,” the beggar whispered. “The hellcat, he speaks, and of things man does not wot! Life is a hideous thing, truly!”

“Very good, sirrah,” I said, uncomfortable.

“Beware,” intoned the beggar in a voice most sepulchral and iron. “Beware the Great Old Ones! They come. Shuuulz! Berqlibr’thed! Al-Qap, the mad Arab! The Kid in Yellow! Beware! They come, from beyond the mortal veil, invading the world material and driving innocent men to Bedlam and beyond! The Brainless Hound of Infinite Spittle, who gnaws at the souls of the unwary, he comes. The beast-men of Raw-Li Ch’rrch come, bringing with them untold tides of despair. The tiger that walks as a man, he comes. Beware!”

Walker grasped my shoulder. “I daresay this fellow’s been touched by some imp or other. Come, let us leave this crackbrain, and be about our business.”

We eased away from the howling madman, who continued his tirade, at times raising the great feline in his arms for inspection by the crowd, but his words haunted me. The tiger that walks as a man. I remembered Lady Nimue’s words of warning: “‘Ware the tiger. ‘Ware the tiger.” Was I doomed to be forever haunted by the spectral stripes and phantom fangs of some unseen predator?

It was therefore with feelings of profound doom that I allowed Walker to guide me through the crowd, until at last we found our quarry, the elusive Mister Frazier, beneath a somewhat worn canopy, betting slips nearly covering the rickety table before him.

He was a tall, thin young man, his blonde hair knotted and unruly. His every motion suggested a man deep in unease, and for a brief, bewildering moment I thought it was my nemesis Hobbes. However, after a moment it became clear the resemblance was only co-incidental. He wore finely cut clothing, suggesting a young man of some means, but the fine lines on his face--and the dram of gin by his elbow--hinted at unpaid debts, at late-night visitations by creditors, at bankruptcy and forlorn hopes dashed. A well-built young woman sitting next to him, while somewhat plump, was sufficiently statuesque to delight the eye, but the cut of her gown and the cheapness of the fabric implied a certain mercenary aspect to their relationship.

“Mr. Frazier?” I asked. He looked up with eyes filled with dread, and I continued. “I come from our mutual friend Duke.”

With this remark his face turned ashy pale, but to his credit he held his ground, and merely nodded. “Do what thou must,” he said resignedly. “The barb may sting but a moment, but the shame of cowardice shall endure into eternity. I await thine killing blow.”

A poet. Typical. “Spare me your dramatics,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. “I come to offer you a business proposal, not assassination, if that is not overly pedestrian for the likes of you.”

Frazier’s brow nearly met his hairline. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dennis St. Michel. I am the Viscount of Stokington.”

“Edwin Frazier, esquire,” he replied, standing and making a bow. “The young lady to my right is my esteemed muse and paramour, who rejoices in the name Miss Fredericka Ritz. She is the eternal and undying inspiration for every note I commit to paper.”

“Charmed,” I replied, and sketched a bow. “This is my partner Mr. Christopher Walker, of Africa.”

“How may I be of service?” asked Frazier.

Walker and I sat. “Mister Duke has apprised me as to the fact that you owe him nearly five thousand pounds.”

“Alas,” cried Frazier. “By equus and absinthe I am undone, my love of Lady Luck goes unrequited and the dice curse me at every throw.”

“I would like to offer you a chance to escape penury,” I said evenly. “I have need of a young man skilled in the arts of cards and you seem to match my requirements. I also need a young lady of Miss Ritz’s fashion; perhaps she would also like to assist us.”

“For what purpose, sir?”

“A small game concerning a gentleman of property but no morals.”

“A proper villain, then? Perhaps, perhaps. Do you possess any great chance of success?”

“I would put money on it,” I said, smiling.

Frazier grimaced. “As would have I, once. For most men--till by losing rendered sager--will back their own opinions by a wager.”

Walker glanced at me quickly. “If you follow, your debts shall be covered, and you shall away with a tidy sum. The part you play is but small.”

“And no great vice?” Frazier asked, and I could sense in his voice a weakening of resolve, a desire to escape his mean station by any methods offered to him. “No uncalled-for sin?”

“Can one sin ‘gainst a sinner?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Think, my friend. Enough money to pay off Mister Duke, and perhaps to put your young muse in finery fit for a demigoddess, rather than a demimonde.”

Frazier sighed, and buried his face in his hands. For long moments he was silent. Then at last, as though from a great distance, he said, “What is my part?”

“A gambler, a role for which I think you most well-suited. And one other, but that shall require you to work an honest day’s work.”

He let out a death-groan. “First you blackmail me into whatever shenanigan Mister Duke has planned, then you condemn me to the hell of…labour.”

“It is but light work,” I said hurriedly. “You shall sit behind a desk and move papers about, nothing more.”

With an obstinate expression he said, “It is the principle of the thing.”

“And besides,” I said, “‘Tis not Mister Duke’s play. ‘Tis my own.”

“Yours?” he said, startled.

“Indeed. Will you act?”

He sighed, but then extended his hand. “It seems I have but little choice.” We shook.

Arrangements were made to transport young Mister Frazier and his lady back to the city. As Walker and I proceeded by coach to the warm and welcoming bosom of that noble municipality, I explained to him the role our gambling friend was to play. I also elaborated on the Vital Matter of the Banker.

Now, to find a forger and all would be in readiness!

The Window

2008-09-18T09:59:00.001-07:00

The apple I was eating was very good, but to be entirely frank I was somewhat tired of waiting for young Gus and his confederates to arrive. The morning had dawned misty and cold, and I huddled in a corner off Cavendish Square. Sir Julius Dithers’ house was opposite.

At last, a sextet of small wraiths emerged from the fog. Led by Gus, the urchins quickly formed a semicircle around me.

“This is his Lordship,” said Gus proudly. “He’s a real nobleman, he is.” The other children looked on in apparent awe.

Gus made introductions. “These are me mates Hans and Fritz,” pointing to two shock-headed boys who looked about six, “and Jase,” a squinting, dirty boy of nine or ten with a lizard in his pocket, “and the Slug.” Gus made an airy gesture towards a brawny boy with an expression of extreme stupidity on his face.

“An’ this is me gel Hil,” he said with some pride, slinging an arm companionably around the shoulders of a tiny girl of perhaps five years, whose stringy blonde hair and narrow features did not completely disguise a quiet intelligence. “Just like the big lads down by the quays got thems gels, I gots my gel,” said Gus.

“Gus, do you even know what older boys do with their girls?” I asked, bemused.

He frowned, and thought for a long moment. “She would bake me cakes?” he said hopefully.

“Yes. Yes, that is exactly what she would do.”

I turned to the chit of a girl. “Hil, Gus tells me you can read.” She nodded solemnly. I handed her a small card. “Read this, please.”

She squinted at the writing, and in a halting voice, read off, “R-Reputation is an idle and most false imp-impositi-on.”

“Very good,” I said. “Now, Gus told you what to do?” She nodded. “Then sally forth and off you go then.” She trotted down the street, eyeing the wall in front of Sir Julius’ manse carefully. At last finding a spot that suited her, she shinnied up the wall, and was over the top in a twinkling.

The boy Gus had identified as ‘Slug’ sat down against the wall and pulled his cap over his eyes. “Waken me iffen she comes back,” he said.

Gus looked at him contemptuously. “Mayhaps you’d best stay awake, lest the constabulars come.”

“Mayhaps you’d best shut it, lest I thump thee,” Slug said, his tone resentful.

“Get up,” said Gus in a cold hard tone.

Slug slowly clambered to his feet, his bulk ponderous and massive compared to Gus’ small frame. “You be thinkin’ this youth activities association belongs to you, liken you was our Parly-man.”

“Hold now,” said one of the other boys, either Hans or Fritz, but it was too late. Slug lunged for Gus, but his Goliath-like size was of little use. Gus agilely dodged the blow the other boy aimed for his head, and neatly caught Slug in a headlock. “Say nuncle,” Gus gasped as Slug struggled.

Slug merely grunted, and so Gus wrenched his arms higher. “Say nuncle!”

Slug squealed in pain, but before he could relent, the boy Jase pointed, crying, “There she is!”

We turned, and could see Hil nimbly working her way across one of the high gables of the mansion. As we watched, she struck the sill of a window that could have been no more than one foot across with the butt of her hand. The miniscule window opened, and she snaked through, vanishing into the house.

“Success,” I said. “She is in Sir Julius’ house.” Behind me, Gus turned Slug loose. The larger boy grumbled resentfully and massaged his shoulders, but the rest of us ignored him.

The boys took turns pitching pennies while we waited. Fritz seemed to be winning; at the very least, he took tuppence apiece from Slug and his brother Hans. However, aside from Slug’s continued sullen glances at Gus, the boys made quite merry.

After a time, we heard a scrabbling noise above us. Hil appeared sitting atop the wall, her bare heels tapping against the granite, and with our help she quickly descended. She briskly dusted herself off.

“Well?” I asked.

“Jus’ like you said, lordship,” she squeaked. “All writ under ‘em on little shiny pages like Gus said.”

“And what did they say, Hil?”

She thought hard, remembering. “Carry-vaggie-o, Rubbens, Brooeg-hell, and de la Toor.”

“‘Tis what they said?”

“You know it, lordship.”

“And no-one saw you?” She shook her head. “Good work, Hil. Have a sweet,” I said, and handed her a paper-wrapped confection. With astonishing rapidity, she crammed it into her gaping mouth, and began chewing furiously as a rapturous expression appeared on her face.

As the urchins and I made our way down the street, the children one by one detached from the group and vanished into the growing crowd, until I was left alone. I felt some pity towards these youths, so innocent in their lawlessness. They would do anything for a shilling. I have been accused of many a crime, but destitution, my dear Sir, destitution - that is a sin.

Still, my young cohort had uncovered some useful information for me. But I would have to keep an eye on Slug, for I would have other jobs for them in the future, and could brook no serious rift in their party.

The Duke

2008-09-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

Gus and I strolled down Knightsbridge in the early afternoon swell. “I must admit, I have never heard of this place,” I said.

“Never ‘eard of Duke’s?” said Gus, affronted. “Why, his Grace is one of the chief patrons of the youth activities associations.”

“If this is an opium den, I shall be very put out.”

“Nay, nay, ‘tis a five-shilling house, you know, a bawd.”

We turned into Dunesborough Lane. An ill-painted sign had been hastily nailed to the side of a dilapidated slum. DUKES, POORVAYERS oF JOY. The lintel was stained with something that may have been wine, but on the odds was probably not.

“Well, this is pretty,” I said.

Gus grinned. “‘Tis the best, lordship.”

I opened the door and we entered. I was surprised to find the interior to be most opulent, if somewhat decadent. Men, young and old, were gathered around the velvet, with whores of various quality clutching their arms as dice were cast upon the tables. The din was extraordinary given the early hour, and as Gus and I threaded our way through the crowd we were nearly deafened.

Accosting a steward, we were directed towards the rear of the structure after inquiring as to the operator. A nondescript door, seemingly out of place amid the luxury, was set into the rear wall of the great room. Beyond it lay the inner workings of the casino, the private salons where gentlemen might entertain young ladies at their leisure, and the cellars stocked full of liquors and ale. The steward went in ahead of us, bidding us take our ease at the door while he consulted with the owner. After a time, a doughty young Chinawoman emerged. “Mister Duke is busy now,” she said in careful English. “He will not see you.”

“SEND THEM IN!” bellowed an inebriated voice from beyond the door.

“Mister Duke is very tired. He cannot see visitors,” said the Chinawoman hastily.

“SEND--THEM--IN!”

“One moment,” she said, and retreated to the gloomy recesses behind the door. There subsequently ensued an apparently strained conversation, with the low tones of the Chinawoman being punctuated by loud outbursts from the unseen Duke.

At last the Chinawoman returned. “Mister Duke has made a miraculous recovery. He will see you now.”

We followed her deep into the bowels of the casino, arriving at a private apartment adorned in the most shabby style. Seated behind a decrepit desk was an equally decrepit man. His frock coat was worn, and covered with burns, which came from the occasional rain of ash that issued from the pipe clenched betwixt his teeth. He had little hair, and what hair he possessed was white, and twisted and knotted from neglect. Affixed, apparently permanently, to his face were a pair of smoked glasses, and in his manner he was most nervous, constantly twitching and jerking as though beset by spirits. A lotus-eater, in short.

“Who are you and what do you seek?” he barked, nervously looking behind us, as if expecting intruders. “Be quick, and say your peace, for this is the hour and time the bat emerges from his darkened belfry and assaults the unwary.”

“May we sit?” I asked, gesturing to a pair of ratty, worn stools before the desk. Mister Duke agitatedly nodded his assent.

“I much admire your casino,” I said, by way of opening the conversation. “It seems most prosperous.”

“Prosperous?” snorted Duke. “Spare me your kind words. I plow a lonely furrow, my friend.”

“I am Dennis, Viscount of Stokington. If you have heard of me, I should not be much surprised, for I am well-known in the gaming establishments of this great city.”

Duke tapped out his pipe into a bowl with shaking hands. “Stokington, Stokington,” he mused. “Yes, I’ve heard the name.”

“I have a small business proposition for you, your Grace,” I said. “One of extraordinary profitability, one that will raise you up from this lowly station.”

“Shut your mouth, boy,” snarled Duke. “You only reveal your ignorance.”

He sighed, and suddenly seemed ancient, a grayed and mouldering presence in a tomb long since deserted. “I was a great man, once.”

With trembling hands he packed tobacco into his pipe and jerkily struck a match. “A great man, yes. With a great house and a beautiful, charming wife, and children who loved me. Then I went over the edge. Pushed, really. The edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others--the living--are those who pushed their luck as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But I went over, was pushed over. Now I have nothing, save this casino.”

He puffed furiously on his pipe. “Damned Junius.”

I shifted in my seat. “Then perhaps this is your chance to regain some wealth.”

“What do you propose, then?” he asked tiredly.

“In a few days time, a gentleman will come to your casino accompanied by myself. When he does, I wish for you to ensure that he loses. Enormously.”

Duke eyed me through his smoked glasses. “And what profit do I warrant?”

“Keep his losses, for all I care.”

His eyebrows went up. “‘Keep the losses’? What profit do you warrant, then?”

“Satisfaction,” I said.

“Ah, a matter of honour,” he said wryly. He turned to Gus. “And do you approve of this course of action, young fellow whose name I do not possess?”

Gus squirmed. “Iffen his Lordship says it be good, then it be good. And my name, ‘tis Gus. Augustus.”

Duke looked hard at him. “Augustus. A fine name,” he said with some definiteness.

He turned to me. “I find your proposal most reasonable, although I must say I am affronted you would presume me to be the sort of man who cheats.”

“You own a casino.”

He glared at me momentarily. “Touché. However, before I undertake this for you, I wish you to undertake something for me.”

“And that would be?”

He shrugged. “A simple matter. A young musician, a gambler in my casino, has mounted debts to me that he has seen fit not to repay. This fellow is quite wealthy, and so I feel that it would be inopportune for anything…untoward to occur to him before he can settle accounts.”

“And I--”

“--will convince him to make full restitution.”

“I see. It sounds an easy matter. Where can I find him?”

“He has awayed to Newmarket, for the running. His name is Frazier.”

“Very well, I do a favour for you, and you do a favour for me. Most proper. I give you my most humble thanks for your assistance in this matter, Mister Duke.”

He nodded irritably, and with that as our signal to exit, young Gus and I made our adieus. We walked through muddy streets, and as we did so I reflected on Mister Duke’s decline of circumstances. Like a fine coat, the time when he fit had long since passed, and now he withered away in storage. Many a man prospers while another fails, both in the same field. I mentioned this to young Gus. The city had seen fit to provide me with a perfect example, and I pointed to two buildings facing each other across a busy street. One was well-built and well-appointed, the other dilapidated and decayed. “Look here,” I said.

Gus looked at me, baffled. “What?”

“Do you not see?” I huffed in frustration. “Read the signs.”

Gus peered at the two signs. He turned back to me in confusion.

“They both say ‘Baker’s’,” I explained patiently. “One is successful, the other a failure.” I frowned. “Can you not read?”

He bashfully looked at the ground. “Nay,” he whispered.

“Well, we shall have to remedy that,” I said briskly. “In the mean, are there any of your young associates who can read?”

The urchin thought for a moment, then brightened. “Me gel Hil, she knows her letters. Numbers, too.”

“Good, bring her along tomorrow. I have a job for her.”

I resolved at that moment that Gallant Augustus’s illiteracy should not go unmended. After all, reading maketh a full man, and if Gus were to grow to be a good sharper, he would need to be very full of it indeed.

The Debtor

2008-09-16T07:25:00.000-07:00

It is impossible for a Scotsman to open his mouth without making some Englishman hate or despise him. I reflected on this as we dealt with the latest difficulty to our plan.

“Now listen carefully, your Majesty,” said Walker. “‘Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously. Moses he knowses his toeses aren’t roses, as Moses supposes his toeses to be.’”

“Moses s’poses his toeses is rrrroses, but Moses s’posen errrrrrrrroneously. Moses he ken that his toeses ain’t rrroses, as Moses s’poses his toeses to bein’,” brogued the Dauphin.

Walker sighed, and turned to me. “‘Tis hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

“If I had a shilling for every time I had heard the words ‘hopeless, utterly hopeless’ before the successful completion of some scheme or other, I should be a very wealthy man,” I said. “Still, you do have a point. Why, I imagine I could turn young Gus from a ragamuffin into a proper gentleman before you can turn the Dauphin from a Scot into a proper Englishman.”

“Not a bet I would consider taking, your Lordship,” said Walker. He turned back to the Dauphin. I released a sigh, and then excused myself from the small room we had rented. Making my way down the stairs, I exited the slaphouse deep in the heart of Southwark, where refuse spilled into the streets and tired beggars clamoured for alms. To think, I was scant alleyways from my room at the Tabard.

Avoiding mud puddles, I walked with a slow and forlorn pace down the street, passing the looming bulk of Marshalsea. From their barred windows, the denizens of that awful place called out piteously, begging for release. In more normal times, I ignored such entreaties, but sunk in such despondent mire as I was, when a grey-topped old duffer called in stentorian tones to me from a ground-level window, I stopped.

“Your lordship!” he called. “Your lordship, clearly a man of probity and prosperity such as yourself could see fit to release me from my bonds!”

“What is your name, old relic?” I asked, for his face was deeply lined from years of suffering and neglect. Almost ecstatically, he reached through the bars to me.

“The Right Reverend William Dunn, is I. Billy Dunn, of the little chapel in Aldborough Hatch, ask any man there, they know me!”

“A man of the cloth?” I asked, intrigued. “What brings you to such mean estate?”

“Oh, alas, alas,” he wailed. “Is it not true that all men can be criminals, if tempted, but also that all men can be heroes, if inspired? Were that such an opportunity were given to me!”

“At your ease, fellow. What troubles you? Why have you alighted here? What business is it?”

“A fifty-pound business,” he sobbed. “A grave weakness, done only for reasons of strength. Strength, I tell you!”

“Go on,” I said.

“My rectory lacked for funds--what a tragedy befalls the church! But a young man of my acquaintance--of handsome and trustworthy visage, from a good family, and most reputable--told me of a horse race to be held outside the city. This horse race, he vouchsafed--most surely he did, in the kindest and most honest words--had already been decided, even before the horses had been run. He allowed that were I to place my coin upon a certain horse--a most high-spirited stallion by the name of Beadlebomm--I should win back ten times my original wager.”

I smiled sadly. “And this stallion came in last, and you lost everything.”

“Everything!” cried Dunn. “Fifty pounds of the church’s money, which was to go to the upkeep and maintenance of my parish, and some shillings of my own! O what misfortune! In time, the bill-collectors and the county sheriffs came for me--honourable men, every one of them, and I will hear not a word against them--and locked me away here in this prison. Why, oh why did my luck turn bad? Why could not my horse have won?”

“My friend,” I said, “you have been subject to a most unkind trick. This fellow told you that this horse would win, when in fact he knew it was certain to lose. You were marked to lose before you even placed your wager.”

Dunn’s face coloured a deep red. “That...scoundrel! How dare he? How dare he?”

“This gaol you reside in...comfortable, is it?” I said idly.

“Comfortable? Do not be foolish! I moulder away here, as a result of the unconscionable actions of an unscrupulous charlatan!”

“Truly, it is unfortunate that this fellow has escaped justice. If there were some way of punishing him, would you be amenable?”

His face screwed up tight, Dunn managed to snarl, “Impossible. He has ventured overseas, indeed, came and visited me prior to his departure!”

“Such men must not go unpunished.”

“No, no indeed! May God’s own fist fall upon them!” he thundered, and gripping the bars tightly, rattled them in their sockets.

“How inexpressibly fortuitous of you to say so,” I said, “For I have just such a rogue of my acquaintance that needs punishment.”

Dunn’s eyebrows shot up. “You say so?”

“Indeed,” I said. “A slaver, and a dealer in slaves.”

“Scum.”

“Quite so. If I pay your debts, would you be willing to work with me to malign this fellow?”

His aged face set with determination, he nodded. “I am your man.”

“I shall return.”

I whistled cheerfully as I returned to the rented room to extort fifty pounds out of Walker. Dunn’s words had inspired some theological reflection in me. God provides, I decided, and God loves tricksters. Jacob, David, Solomon--noble men all, and men of my party. Now I had my old priest. Yes, I thought, God most certainly provides.

The Siren

2008-09-08T08:38:00.001-07:00

From the Fruhlinger Archives: Nimue, une sorcière de la rue de Londres (Alexandre Cabanel, Oil on Canvas, 1795)

The Election

2008-09-08T07:31:00.000-07:00

Many of my New World correspondents have recently apprised me as to the fact that you Americans are having yet another of your experiments with Athenian democracy. Far be it for me to counsel you as to what course of action your young nation, having only just come into existence within the limits of my own lifetime, should take, but I believe it clear which of the two candidates is superior. Please, for the sake of your nation, the sake of the relations between our two great nations, elect the older man with greater experience, the military hero, the reformer of an old, corrupt party, the maverick.

Vote early, vote often, vote Harrison and Granger in '36.

The Dauphin

2008-09-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

“How do you suppose they get this filling in here?” asked Walker, holding aloft a fine gougére, as we luncheoned the next day.

“Some sort of guild secret, I imagine,” I replied. The meal was most fine, consisting of the crispest, driest claret I have ever tasted, well matched by broiled grouse atop a bed of sautéed potatoes. Finely minced carrots completed the gustatory repast, and as we finished the meal with delicious pastries and coffee, we discussed the various advances of our plans.

“On your Mister Mills, I have nothing,” he admitted.

I waved a hand carelessly. “Not to worry. I have a spy following him as we speak.”

“Then tell me how else you have fared these last few days.”

“I told you before we would need ten to succeed.”

“Ten with us, or without?”

“Without.”

“Ten.”

“You believe we need one more?” I asked. He said nothing. “You believe we need one more.”

“Ten is good. Eleven is better.”

“Eleven it is. Now, I have one of our gamblers--a Mister Jones, of Mayfair--and one of the busty young wenches--Mademoiselle Blaze shall do nicely. As for the role of the young priest, a friend of mine shall play that part, and I can count on easily getting two young ragamuffins.”

“Three.”

“Three, then,” I said easily. “The problem remains: we still require a master forger, an elderly priest, a gentleman of distinguished and noble countenance, another buxom young maid, and a second gambler.”

“Difficult to find, difficult to mind,” said Walker. “I shall make every reasonable effort to--hello, what’s this?”

I turned, and discovered a most singular person had just entered the salon. The third quality I noticed about him was the length of his beard, which was slate-gray and quite luxurious, reaching nearly to the floor. The second quality I noticed about him was his hat, a tricorn of quite impressive scale. But the first quality I noticed about him was his height. He was quite the shortest man I had ever seen, the top of his head (insofar as it could be discerned under the hat) barely clearing the plane of the tables.

Dressed in clothing once fashionable, now faded, he bore a large package bound in paper and twine. Weaving his way, through the crowded salon, he gradually made his way to the side of an elegantly dressed toff. Once behind the dandy, he cleared his throat loudly, and the finely-dressed gentleman turned, knocking the package out of the short man’s hands and onto the ground, where it made the horridly tragic sound of broken glass.

Already I knew what would come next, and flashing a grin at Walker, I rose and eased through the throng, reaching the ill-fated pair just in time to hear the short man release a voluminous torrent of slurred Scots.

“Ye daft bugger, luik wat ye’s done to me packy!”

Looking mightily affronted, the gentleman sneered, “Perhaps if you had been more careful--”

“Perhaps y’d best be minding your manners, for ‘twas ye who spun and smashed me packy, ye great Southern bastard.” To the gentleman’s obvious discomfort, and my admiration, the short man had managed to bring tears to his eyes, and a steady stream of brine leaked down his cheeks to lose themselves in the lichenous tendrils of his beard.

“'Twas for me wifey,” he sobbed.

“Perhaps I can make some...restitution,” said the gentleman, quite apparently uncomfortable, and he reached for his billfold.

Time for me to intervene. I gracefully sidled next to the short man, and wrapping an arm around his shoulders (in actuality the crown of his hat, but you make hay with the straw you have), said, “My good sir, please put your coins away. In truth, only an impartial, third observer could discern that neither of you was at fault.”

“Neither of us?” said the elegant gentleman. Although I could not see his face, I could sense the short man glaring at me.

“No, and so you should not be responsible for this man’s package.”

“But who shall pay for me packy?” bawled the short man, recovering nicely.

“I shall,” I said gallantly, and the crowd of onlookers applauded. “Since I discovered the lack of culpability, it only seems proper for me to provide the recompense to this gentleman, whose package was to meet an end so untimely.”

“Wa-al, that’s very gen’rous o’ye...ver’ gen’rous,” the short man mumbled.

“'Twould be most vulgar for us to discuss the transaction here, in this fine establishment. Let us retire without, where we may more easily settle accounts.”

Skillfully guiding the short man outside, despite his carefully concealed struggles, I presented to the rest of the salon the beaming face of a Samaritan about to embark on a positive crusade of goodness. There was a smattering of applause as we exited, Walker trailing slightly behind us.

Once in the alleyway, things changed abruptly. I turned the short man loose with a shove, and as he struggled to regain his balance, I said, “Nice lark.”

“What?” he said, giving me a blank look. Drat. My mastery of the thieves’ cant would serve me little here.

“Job. Trick. Scheme. Whatever you may call it. You almost got away with it.”

“An’ I woulda, iffen yous fine bodrachs hadna interfered,” he said furiously.

“Just out of curiosity, what was in the package? A couple of smashed-up bottles?”

He glared at me, then in a tone most begrudging, said, “Auld window-pane I foun’ in the lane.”

“Excellent!” I said, grinning cheerily. “To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The short man drew himself up, creating a very small picture. “I, fer all ye ken, am the crown Doffin of France.”

“An excellent and, I am certain, quite truthful answer, with only two small difficulties that I can see. One: it is pronounced ‘Daw-fan’ and Two: the Dauphin of France is nine years old and imprisoned in France, whereas you appear to be a septuagenarian and are at liberty in London. Other than that, I believe you completely, your Majesty.”

A look of dawning comprehension creased the Dauphin’s face. “Yuir not callin’ yon sheriffs?”

“No, I think not.”

He reached into his coat and retrieved a small tin. “Name’s Smythe,” he said, inhaling a pinch of snuff.

“I once knew a man with a wooden leg named Smythe,” I said to Walker.

“What was the name of his other leg?”

“I don’t know, he never told me.” Turning back to the Dauphin, I said, “How long have you been practicing the fine art of swindle?”

“All me life, an’ compared ta me, yuir just a wee bairn.” Proud. Very proud.

“And the best you can manage is a simple broken-vase scheme?”

“Ach! See here now,” he began, but I cut him off.

“Can you sound more English?”

He stared at me, and then clearing his throat, said, “Indubitably, my good man. How does this sound?”

“Still fairly Scottish, but perhaps with practice...” I said, turning to Walker.

Walker looked sceptical. “Perhaps.”

“What are ye blithering about?” said the Dauphin in irritation.

I smiled. “Your Majesty, I would like to offer you an honest day’s pay for a dishonest day’s work.”

-------

Later, I asked Gus about him. “Oh, he’s alright,” said Gus. “Nice old bloke.”

“He claims to be a king.”

“Well, that’s alright for you, ain’t it? All kings is mostly rapscallions anyway.”

True. Very true. Sometimes my young streetwise friend could be most astute. At any rate, another role in my drama had been filled. Perhaps this Dauphin could act the proper Englishman. As the man said, the play truly was the thing, for after all I had already caught a king.

The Reverend

2008-09-01T10:25:00.000-07:00

That afternoon I ventured out to Piccadilly. The elegant townhouse in front of me bespoke prosperity, the façade a testament to the days of ancient Athens brought forth to the modern era. It also had peonies.

I knocked smartly on the front door. After a few moments an addle-pated young man, whom I initially took to be a servant, opened the door. A thick shock of wavy ginger hair surmounted a visage of astonishingly banal stupidity. However, the cut of his clothing and the smartly turned-out shoes he wore argued against the servant theory.

I politely raised my hat. "Is the young Reverend Keane within?"

A look of dull incomprehension settled on the young man’s face. "Is he within what?"

"You must be Geoffrey," I said kindly. Keane had mentioned his brother, apparently the local idiot, several times.

"Must I?" he replied, seemingly puzzled.

From behind the fool a voice hailed. "Whatever is happening, Geoffrey?”"A round-faced young man, his blonde hair slicked back from his forehead and dressed in the manner of a parson, appeared from the next room. "I can hear all variety of commotion, and--Oh no!" he yelped, as he caught sight of me. To my utter astonishment, he turned on one heel and sprinted from the foyer. I grimaced ferociously, and laid chase.

"William Keane, get back here!" I bellowed as I passed through an elegantly appointed sitting room with all speed. Three matronly ladies watched with startled expressions as a young minister dashed through their tea, followed closely by a well-dressed young noble. As I passed these three worthies, I collided with a young auburn-haired lady seated upon an ottoman, who let out a loud squawk as I sent her and her knitting sprawling. "Pardon me, ladies," I gasped, and resumed the chase.

Through the hallway, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the garden, where at last I was able to corner my prey. Keane had, through all our years at Eton and Oxford together, been a doughy sort of boy, and I easily overtook him in our steeplechase through his house.

As he sprinted across the lawn I tackled him from behind. We grappled, his conduct, in my opinion, most unbecoming a man of the cloth. He managed to land several heroic blows, but at last I seized hold of his wrist, and with his own fist managed to lay a punch on him that took all fight out of him. "Stop hitting yourself," I said, panting, as I rolled off him. Both of us lay on the cool grass, momentarily exhausted by our exertions.

"What the bloody hell was that about, Will?" I asked at last.

Indignant, he raised himself to a seated position. "Here I am, newly become a man of God, and you arrive, as smart and neat as you please, ready to embroil me in some half-baked school boy prank! No thank you."

"You owe me, you coward! Dashing off like that in the middle of my duel with Hobbes. Most dishonourable, most dishonourable indeed. What would your father think?"

Keane grumbled unhappily. "Bringing my father into this--not cricket, old man, not cricket at all."

"He’d be ashamed of you, running like a little girl--coincidentally, was that fine specimen of womanhood I knocked over in your parlor your sister?"

"Yes, and I’ll have you stay well away from her, thank you very much. Besides, she’s very religious, although I must admit her theology’s worse than her knitting."

I idly flicked some blades of grass from my breeches. "Now, to business."

Keane groaned. "God preserve me, what now?"

"In order to make good for the gross insult you delivered to my person when you fled so shamefully, I have need of your services in a little parlor game I am planning."

"You must have any number of scallywags at your beck and call. Why me?"

"Because you possess the necessary mettle, the necessary steel. It runs in your family," I said, flattering him shamelessly. "The Keane spirit seizes the prompt occasion, makes the thought start into instant action, and at once plans and performs, resolves and executes! That is the sort of man I need to help me, not some stick in the mud with his head up his arse."

"So...definitely not Geoffrey then."

We both laughed at that.

When our peals of merriment had at last ceased, I said, "You shan’t find it difficult, Will. Just be your usual earnest, priggish self."

Keane glared at me. "You say the sweetest words to me."

I stood, and held out my hand. Helping him to his feet, I said, “I have a young lady to whom I need you to minister. I imagine you have done it a hundred times before. The only difference this time shall be that you shall cleave closely to the script I have prepared for you.”

Keane eyed me critically. "You do not ever change, do you?"

"I would like to change, but I am wicked," I said. I clapped him on the shoulder. "I will let you know all the details."

I took my leave. With luck, the young reverend would not realise he was playing two roles at once. Now, to see what Walker had unearthed, and what high-jinks Mister Mills had committed of late!

The Cook

2008-08-31T12:17:00.000-07:00

"And this fellow is a decent queer cole maker?"

"Aye, the best, Lordship, the best," boasted Gus as he led me through the crowded streets of Mayfair. Thronging around us were the assorted bakers, liverymen, and scullery maids whose daily toil made the lives of the upper crust possible. We slipped between two parked carts, their beds packed high with squashes in one and barrels in the other, and walked around to a fashionably decorated garden abutting a particularly elegant townhouse.

The heat from the kitchen door was intense as we ambled easily up to it; the morning baking was being done, and the delicious scent of fresh bread met our noses as I waited and Gus ventured inside. The morning was quite clement, and I enjoyed the intermingling smells of roses and baking as I waited.

After a time, Gus returned, trailing behind him a grin. The grin was attached to a young man dressed in the livery of a cook, but it was obvious to even the casual observer that the grin was the master here, and the young man merely a bit player in his own life. The young man extended a hand. "Tiberius Jones, at your service."

"Care to talk for a moment?" I asked.

"With pleasure," he grinned. "Young Gussie says you have a job in mind."

"I do indeed. I hear you make bent cole," I stated.

He glanced back and forth, apparently checking the garden for listeners. "Are you a constable?" He glared suspiciously at me, managing to do so while still grinning.

"I give you my word as a gentleman I am not."

"His Lordship’s alright," put in Gus.

"Right then," grinned Jones. "What’s it to be then?"

"Can you make a large sum of counterfeit notes, of varying denominations, relatively quickly?"

"Quick as you like," he shrugged. "An’ so sharp even Mr. Pitt couldna tell the difference."

"Actually," I said casually, "I would prefer it if he could tell the difference. They should not appear too authentic."

Jones’ brow furrowed. "Are you planning on turning me in? Running a scrap against me?"

"No," I said, smiling. "I’m running a roarer."

Jones frowned while still grinning, an impressive feat. "I dunna follow, but iffen your money’s good..."

"It is," I said. "Gus said you were a sharper, in addition to being a cole maker. This one is a long game, not a pass-the-king kiddie draw in a merchant’s hove." I put as much derision as I could into my voice.

"Here now, easy, Lordship," said Jones soothingly. "No offence meant, no offence meant. I’m game for most anything, iffen you need me. My gel Antonia wants a house, so whatever your scheme is, I’m your man."

I clapped my hands together. "Excellent! But I must ask, can you play the gentleman? I need a sharp young fellow to accompany me in places where the lower classes are less than welcome."

He looked affronted. "'Course I can. ‘Civil government, so far as it is instituted for the security of property, is in reality instituted for the defense of the rich against the poor, or of those who have some property against those who have none at all.’ Is that posh enough for you?"

I spread my palms in a conciliatory way. "More than enough. But I must warn you, it could be physically dangerous. These are not kind people we shall be dealing with."

Jones grinned. "I’ll grab me sharps. Use ‘em all the time for me cooking. I’ve got skill, I have."

"Knives? I think that would probably be a bad idea. Would you not prefer a pistol, perhaps?"

"Knives are an excellent idea. Massive dock-off glittery ones. Ones that look like they could skin a cockatrice. Knives are nug, ‘cause they’re quiet, and the quieter they are, the more likely we are to make use of them. Stitch ‘em right up. Gives us the look of bein’ hard. Pistols for a jock, knives for a lock."

I stared at him. "Remind me to keep an eye on him," I said to Gus.

"Knives it is, guv," said Jones.

"So long as you do not put one in me, carry whatever you like," I said.

"Sharp," Jones said, and pulling off his chef’s cap, ran his hands through his greasy, curly hair. "When’s it to be then, and how much?"

"I need ten thousand."

"Ten thousand is dear."

"In differing notes."

"Differing notes is double dear."

"Too much for you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jones looked disgruntled. "I can handle it. When d’you need them by?"

"Probably in a fortnight. I shall send young Gus around to let you know the precise details."

"Right, I’m back to the fires, else I’ll find myself in a bad loaf." He spat in his hand, and we shook.

Walking back, I glanced down at Gus. "Are you sure we can trust him? I do not like the way he grins so."

“Mister Jones, he’s a right prince among men, he is. When he was a lad he was one o’ the minor clergy, then he went ‘mongst the resurrection men. Guessen he got tired of diggin’, ‘cause he started coining cole a year or two back. But he never forgot where he came from. Them flue-boys as work the East End get a pound a year from him. A whole pound! Can you hazard it?"

"A pound apiece?"

He goggled at me. "A whole quid apiece? Nobody’s that rich, Lordship."

We kept walking. A thought occurred to me. "Gus, if you were rich, what would you do with your money?"

Gus thought for a moment. "I’d buy me a dog. A right proper one, wif one ear turned inside out and a cold nose. He’d chase rats and be brilliantly clever."

"You’d buy a dog," I said flatly.

"Dogs’re right expensive, Lordship. I’d like to have a dog. Keep me warm anights."

I got down on one knee in front of him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Gus, if this works, I shall buy you a dog. A proper mongrel. With a turned-inside-out ear."

"Really?" he yelped.

"Really."

As I walked back to the inn, Gus having departed in a happy daze, I noticed a strange feeling in my chest. Was I having some sort of fit? No, it was almost as though I felt…generous. Generous, and kind-spirited towards the rest of the world.

This would not do. This would not do at all. Marching back towards the inn, I resolved to harden my heart, and skin every penny away from some poor bastard immediately, lest I get a reputation for charity. A dog! Of all the things in the world!

The Thief

2008-08-29T12:09:00.000-07:00

In the City of London, night seeps upward as the shadows lengthen, and gloomy dusk rises up from every cellar and drain. The darkness came up and engulfed the Tabard, leaving only a few brave lanterns to light the way. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing. Would Hobbes attempt to strike me down that night, as he had on a night so similar not too long before?

I refused to be cowed. Boldly I made merry in the common room until the wee hours, drinking deeply of ale and brandy, supping on fowl and fish. At last, sotted and woozy, I made my way back to my pitch-black room. Fumbling, I reached for the counterpane in the utter darkness.

"The moon sits upon the Tower walls. You were not here."

I started, nearly spilling the tankard of beer I had brought with me. "Who’s there?" I whispered.

One of the curtains twitched aside, allowing a shaft of moonlight to blaze into the room. Grasping the curtain was a delicate feminine hand. She stepped into the moonlight, and my breath deserted me.

She was as beautiful as when I had seen her performing on the small platform. More beautiful, perhaps, for the moonlight struck her hair and set it ablaze in strands of liquid ebony. The witch.

"Lady Nimue," I managed.

She laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound in the night air. "That name is merely for the 'mudges," she said, her voice tinged with the slightest exoticism, the barest hint of an accent. It sounded somehow different from what she had said before. "Call me...Blaze."

"Very well, Blaze," I said, recovering slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"Robbing you blind, your Excellence," she said cheerfully. She held up a leather sack, apparently stuffed with whatever possessions of value I had.

"I knew it was not real magic," I said, and was surprised to discover an overtone of bitterness in my voice. Was I so desperate to be captured by this exquisite siren?

She laughed again. "Your Excellence does not believe in magic."

"No, although I do believe in thieving gipsies," I said, inching towards her. If she imagined she would away with my belongings without a struggle, she was sorely mistaken.

However, my drunkenness belied my stealth, and spotting my movement, she began to ease towards the open window. "Magic believes in you, though."

"Does it, now?" If I could get slightly closer, I could seize her, although not without some effort.

She placed one foot dramatically on the sill. For a moment I was struck by a strange sensation, as though I had seen the same moment before, but it passed quickly. "Trying to catch me, eh, your Excellence? I think you will find that gipsies do not catch so easil--"

Her face went strangely slack in an instant. I doubted she had been expecting whatever spell had overtaken her, for the sack of loot slipped from her fingers. The expression on her face was hauntingly familiar, and I grasped for the memory, until I realised she had worn the same expression in my...vision, or hallucination, or whatever it had been.

"Dark bells are ringing soon," she whispered through lips made soft and loose by the magic that afflicted her. "He comes...the world-shaker, the world-shatterer. He shall make a New World...he comes."

Baffled and frightened, I sternly said, "What witchery is this?"

"You...you!" she said, pointing at me. "You shall be there...you shall see him rise, and be present at his fall...the fate of nations shall rest in your hands..." her voice trailed off into half-heard whispers and murmurs, and then silence.

I waited for a moment, to see if there was anything more. Of course, I was not so foolish as to make ill use of this time, so I stepped forward and neatly slung the sack onto the bed, and grasped her by the arm.

Whatever trance she had so suddenly entered she exited just as suddenly. "Where-where am I? Have I had one of my fits?" With her free hand, she reached up and massaged her temple.

Then, her eyes clearing, she gasped at my proximity and attempted to leap away.

"Not so quickly, mademoiselle," I said, gripping her arm firmly despite her spirited efforts to escape. The warm, smooth flesh under my palm twisted and flexed as she struggled, but she soon recognised the futility of her actions.

"I am caught," she said, her voice aching with fury. "Summon the constables."

"On the contrary," I said. "A witch and a thief? Too valuable a prize to lock away in Newgate."

She looked at me, startled. "What then, your Excellence?"

"I could use a young lady of your abilities..." I said, and glancing down the front of her blouse, continued, "...and ‘talents’. How would you like a job?"

"A job?" she sneered. "I’d rather go to gaol."

I chuckled. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen." I quirked an eyebrow at this. "Sixteen," she said quickly.

Seeing my sceptical expression, at last she mumbled, "Fifteen."

"This would be no ordinary job, Mademoiselle Blaze. I think that a young lady such as yourself might benefit from such experience as might be imparted."

She gave me a cool look.

"It is," I said importantly, "a gullgropers job."

Her cool look was replaced by one of utter startlement. "Fancy a toff like you knowing a word like that," she said.

Pleased by the fact that I had managed to surprise not one but two of my confederates that day with my knowledge of underhanded dealings, I asked, "Are you interested?"

"Perhaps," she said, after a long moment. I released her arm.

"We shall meet again, I think," she said, and slid out the window without a backwards glance.

A young, talented, and undeniably buxom thief. One of the parts in my grand play had just been filled.

The Response

2008-08-29T02:27:00.000-07:00

Aux gentilshommes du comité présidant du club des Brooks’s les plus honorables:

Bonjour et la plupart des salutation humble,

I bid you good day and request from you the honor of joining your most illustrious club on this fine day, n’est-ce pas. Many times I am hearing from my English friends who are telling me stories most outrageous regarding the honor and nobility of your club and now I am wishing to be a member. I am a nobleman most continental, and have seen glorious service in arms under his most holy majesty Louis le dix-septième in L’Espagne, L’Allemagne, et Les Antilles. However, récemment, L’Révolution has deprived me of my livelihood, and I am forced to flee to England. I hope most sincerely that you will allow me to join your societie. I have many amusing stories to tell, such as when I was the keeper of the Sultan’s bees, or my accidental visit to an island of cheese in the South Seas, or when I nearly liberated la Famille Royale from les sans-culottes. I most humbly beseech you grant admittance, good monsieurs, and I remain most graciously yours,

Le Marquis de Carabás
L'ordre de Saints Maurice et de Lazarus

-------

To the Hand of the Most Honourable Marquess of Carabás,

Good day to you sir. We are most honoured by your request, and are most pleased and delighted to inform you that, in no small part due to the kind words of recommendation provided to us by your acquaintance Mister Christopher Walker, the noted African explorer, your application has been accepted, and we look forward to hearing of your many exploits around the world. May this letter find you in continued good health.

Your humble servant,
John Cholmondeley, Esq.
Brooks’s Private Secretary

The Cab

2008-08-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

The interior of the cab we at last hailed stank of alcohol and horse urine. As the wheels clattered on rough cobbles, Gus elaborated on what startling information he had to impart.

"Someone’s been asking ‘round ‘bout you, Lordship," he said.

"Your gentleman with the thistle-down hair?"

"No, ‘nother fellow entirely. A regular gentleman of three outs, an’ no mistake. All rough and tumble. He’d be handsome, I bet, iffen he cleaned up."

"Describe him to me," I said.

"Little shorter than you, Lordship, and thin. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Looked young. I didna speak to him myself, but my mate Fritz did, an’ I watched."

"Did this fellow say anything?"

"Something about revenge, Lordship."

The subsequent obscenity I uttered must have been of sufficient volume to throw a fright into the driver, for the cab stuttered to a halt.

"Everyt’ing all right, guv?" came the cry.

"Yes, damn you, carry on."

Hobbes! The blasted, thrice-damned Calvin Hobbes! Somehow the blackguard had followed me to London, and was even now conspiring against me. I rubbed my eyes with my hand.

"This is a fine turn of events," I mumbled.

"Lordship, what d’you want me to do?"

I gathered my resolve. "I must devise a scheme to remove Hobbes from my presence once and for all. But how? If not for that infernal duel--"

I stopped, as illumination flooded my brain. I saw at once the way to victory, how neatly the disposition of Hobbes would fit into my plans for Sir Julius, and indeed would enrich them.

"Gus," I said with some forcefulness, "I need, almost immediately, for you to find me a queer cole maker."

Gus gaped, his mouth hanging open. "How do you know about a thing like that?" he gasped.

"You would be surprised at what I know, young Gus. Can you find me one?"

Gus closed his mouth and took on an expression of steely determination. "I know just the sharper, Lordship. Man name of Jones."

"Excellent," I said. "Anything else?"

"You wanted me to find out where His Nibs’ son drops his wins, aye? Well, I did."

"And where is that?"

"Posh nanny house in clubland. Him and his da are members." He frowned in thought. "Called Brooks’s, I think."

I sighed. "Of course."

The chief thrust of my offensive would take place on the tables. After all, to hold the dice is to be at war. Hobbes, far from complicating things, would make them much smoother.

But it appeared I would have to gain admittance to Brooks’s after all.

The Witch

2008-08-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

After meeting with Walker I felt near exhaustion. The effort of outlaying my plan, of answering Walker’s persistent questions, and of repairing any niggling flaws, had quite worn me, and the unpleasant haze that so frequently accompanies headache had begun to descent upon me as I walked through the city back to the Tabard. The evening sun was disappearing behind the nearest townhouses, and I soon found myself sunk into shadow, occasionally dipping into darkness only to emerge moments later into rusty sunlight haphazardly sprawled across the square.

At this time the sound men of business, the trader and the butcher and baker, make for their beds, while the rogues and rascals and lights of the frothy foam that surmounts our great society begin to roam. Therefore you can imagine my surprise when I noticed a large crowd had gathered some distance ahead of me. Curious, I drew closer.

The knot of humanity was gathered around a small wooden platform which had been erected to one side of the square. My first thought was of a hanging. I smiled wearily at my foolishness; the hour was far too late for that. But the press of the crowd prevented me from drawing nearer.

Over the murmurs and babbling of the throng cast out a voice. "Behold, most worthy nobles, ladies and esteemed gentlemen!" called the voice, masculine, full of brassy courage and bravado. "Fresh from the courts of the Emperor in Austria, the Tsar in Russia, and the Sultan in Turkey, the divine and devilish demiurge of divination, the conjuring queen of confabulation, the prestigious and paralysing princess of prestidigitation, she will tell all fortunes and perform magic such as the world has never seen!"

A wandering magician of some sort, the sort found on every corner in London. Still, it might be amusing to watch, I told myself. Besides, I was quite weary, and a few clever card tricks might help me relax. I began to elbow my way towards the center of the crowd, easing past plump burghers and sweating, brawling fishwives.

"Taught by Ulrica Arvidsson, the Sorceress of Stockholm herself, who was in turn taught by Cagliostro the greatest wizard the Italies have ever produced, who learned at the feet of England’s own Isaac Newton, Master of the Hermetic Arts and Discoverer of the Unholy Spheres!"

By this point I was nearly to the front row, and I could begin to see the man speaking. His voice was golden, lyrical and well-spoken, but at first glance one could hardly be impressed. His face, browned by the sun, was lined and creased by time and many cares. He had seen suffering. A bristling black mustache, shot with grey, surmounted his lip, and his current plumpness could not disguise the fact that he had known hunger. His clothes were worn and outlandish, their garish colors faded from long days of travel. In all, an air of inexpressible sadness emanated from him; he was a man dependent on the trickery of others for his fortune, and that will make a beggar out of any man. He was a gipsy, and like all gipsies he knew pain, and the cold, and poverty. He relied only on his wits to survive--his wits, and whatever withered ha’penny crone he had unearthed to play the part of the "witch" the fat and prosperous townsfolk had gathered to see. I admired him.

"Now, at long last, she arrives in London, site of ancient magic and new wonders! But stay back, I warn you, lest you be bewitched!" I pushed forward to the first row, and the platform. "I present to you, the Lady Nimue!"

And then I saw the girl.

For a moment, and for a moment only, I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. "Regina?" I whispered, but it was only something in the line of her jaw, the color of her hair, that had brought back memories of that ill-fated romance, so long forgotten.

The girl standing on the platform, as clear and unafraid as if she were a queen, was quite possibly the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She was tall, with a woman’s bust and a woman’s figure, but she could not have been more than sixteen. An innocence of line, and a clearness of expression, hinted at her youth. A gipsy, clearly, from the inky spread of hair that cascaded down her back to the blackness of her eyes, twin turbulent pools of nothingness in which a man might lose himself, but her skin was ivory pale, not the usual healthy ruddiness so often found in that nomad people. A certain similarity of expression and overall visage between the girl and the man suggested daughter and father, but what tragedy the older man endured touched her not at all. Her nose and cheekbones were delicate, well-formed, and her lips were the palest of coral, just the slightest hint of rose imbuing them with life. A man could die like Narcissus, and turn into a reed, watching her, but unlike that unfortunate Greek it would not be of some perverse self-love but rather an agape born of the greatest respect for the beauty of His creation and the creatures within it.

She began to dance.

The music began suddenly, a harsh drumbeat followed by the haunting call of a pipe. Her hips swayed outward in gyrating loops that cast out her dress into a twirling disc of cloth, revealing slim, alabaster legs and bare feet, the slight cast of dirt upon which served only to heighten the exquisite beauty of the rest.

Her long, slender arms reached out into the welcoming air and traced enigmatic patterns there, while her nimble, delicate fingers wrote strange, foreign phrases upon the wind. As she danced, whirling and weaving, pirouetting upon the tip of a single toe, her sensuous body worked its magic upon the twilight. Her full breasts, so incongruous on so slender a frame, danced with her, but in their own separate paths, a pair of mischievous planets orbiting a bountiful, fecund sun.

I stood rooted to the spot. If the girl had asked me, I should have charged headlong into the French guns, or into the Chinese masses, or into the hordes of Hell themselves. At one remove I felt disturbed by her effect upon me. Was she a witch? The thought worried at me like a terrier. No, I thought. Such things were not possible. There was no such thing as magic. She was not a witch.

Then one of her orbits brought her face to face with me, and her eyes met mine. It was as though I was a key and she the lock, and together we connected. I wanted to break the connection, for fear of losing myself. A ghost of a smile drifted across her face, and she lifted up her hands, from which two dazzlingly white doves took flight. Where had the doves come from? Her arms were bare. She ceased her twirling, but her eyes never left mine, as she paced across the platform towards me, as supple and lethal as a panther. On hands and knees now, she crawled towards me like an animal. The lecherous fool in me would have ordinarily taken the opportunity to scan down the front of her blouse, but I could not remove my eyes from hers. Our faces were now inches apart. She raised one cream-white hand. Her full lips creased into a merry smile. And she blew some strange powder into my face.

I stumbled back, coughing, the powder drawn deep into my lungs. My eyes burned, and my lungs wheezed, as I drew my sword from its scabbard. Armor clanking, I whirled, looking about the forest glade for the sorcerous nymph who had bewitched me. She was nowhere in sight.

Shaking my head to clear it, I reminded myself of my quest. There was a beast in the woods. I must find it. So my king had commanded, and so I must obey.

Hazy morning sunlight illuminated the occasional droplets of dew as they tumbled from perches in the trees above. The air was green with pollen. My thick boots, encased in steel plate, made not a sound on the soft carpet of moss beneath me as I walked through the thickening forest.

For some hours I walked, becoming greatly thirsty in the heat. The atmosphere of life and vegetation was oppressive and menacing. I slung my sword over one shoulder, trusting the chainmail beneath my jerkin to protect me from the notched and gouged blade. I whistled slightly, under my breath, some old forgotten tune of war and fairies and lust among the roses. Even so, I could not dispel the air of threat and hostility that permeated the forest.

Thick sap ran down the cracked trunks of majestic oaks and ancient yews as I clambered down an overgrown slope. Suddenly, as though by magic, I spotted a glimpse of some sleek coat in the ferns ahead. The beast! But almost in the same instant, the burbling sound of running water reached my ears, and as I glanced about me in thirst, I lost sight of the beast. I cursed myself for a fool, and continued onward.

In time I found the stream. This slightly mollified my anger at losing sight of the beast, and I knelt beside it and dipped my cupped hands into the cool, dark water. The icy feeling as it cascaded down my throat was the finest in the world, and thus refreshed, I continued on my quest.

Twice more I saw the beast, twice more I saw the hint of dusky pelt, the sinuous line of some predatory creature slinking amongst the trees. Both times I lost the beast in almost the same instant, before I could give pursuit.

In frustration, I cried, "By God’s bones, why do you torment me, beast?" and threw down my sword into the ferns about my feet.

"Cast down not your blade, knight, for you shall need it soon," whispered a voice close to my ear. I whirled, in fear and confusion, but saw no one. As to the voice, male or female I could not tell.

"I am no knight," said I. "I wear these colours, my king’s colours, as a tiger wears his stripes, and for the same purpose."

There was no answer. I picked up my sword, and carried on.

In time the forest began to change. I had thought it choking and overgrown before, but this new turn showed the error of my thinking. The forest floor was strewn with blossoms, and the sickly sweet scent filled the air like a cloying perfume. Trailing vines hung from every tree, and the light became somehow greener and duskier as I progressed, despite my belief that the sun waxed in the sky. The air itself became almost wet, and hot with the sweet carrion breath of decaying blooms.

"Come," whispered the voice. I came forward, to a screen of vines that hung before me from an oak that had stood there since before the world. "Come," and this time I saw the voice came from behind the curtain of vines.

I stepped forward and parted the vines.

She lay like Venus in a lily, her nude body supported by a bed of moss and ferns, her raven hair lying in waves down across her breasts and modestly covering her most secret of areas. But she wore her nakedness like a banner, and there was no eros in it.

"Dennis of Stokington," she whispered, her voice husky in the humid air.

"Yes, milady," I said.

"You are on a quest. Honor and glory shall be yours, in the coming days. I see many things in your future."

"The future is not ours to know of, but only God's."

She smiled, and in that moment I loved her, and all the eros that had so far been kept from her sylvan boudoir rushed back, and I wished to take her there amongst the roses and irises and posies over which she ruled. "I see broad forests far from here, with strange dark men in them. I see jewels, lost to you forever. I see death. I see glory and infamy on battlefields and the high seas. A lost love found again, and then given up. Dark hounds at midnight. 'Ware the tiger, Dennis, 'ware the tiger. He shall be your undoing, if you let him."

"You speak in riddles."

"I speak clearly. You speak in riddles, for you do not know the answer."

"I desire you."

She smiled again. "Good."

I swallowed deeply, in lust and in fear. "When shall I have you?"

"That is not for you to know, or decide."

"Then when shall I see you again?"

"On the morrow, when the moon strikes the walls of the Tower. But not before." She laughed, and tossed her head back. Her tresses slipped from her breasts, exposing girlish nipples. "See, I send a guide for you, to take you home."

She nodded, and I noticed for the first time a small locket resting on her belly, just over the dimple of her navel. With a trembling hand, I reached forward to grasp it, my finger tips hesitantly and momentarily tracing over the smooth, warm skin of her stomach, before I lifted the small trinket.

"Open it," she whispered. "Open it and discover what I have hidden inside."

I gently flicked open the locket, and as I did so I caught a brief glimpse of an angry, hate filled face. Startled, I stumbled backwards. My boot caught upon a projecting root, and as I collapsed helplessly, I caught one final glimpse of my love. She watched serenely, unconcerned, as my head collided with a rock.

"Good luck, your Lordship," she whispered in a voice of milk and honey.

-------

"Your lordship? Your Lordship?"

Woozily, I shook my head. My eyes felt full of grit. Head throbbing, it occurred to me at that particular moment, that there is something great and terrible about suicide. Then my common sense returned to me, and I opened my eyes to early morning sunshine.

Gallant Gus watched me curiously, perched precariously on a rain barrel. I rolled over, and managed to clamber shakily to my feet. I discovered that I was in an alleyway, much disheveled, and wondered if I had imbibed too much brandy the night before. Then the details of what could only have been a dream returned. Owlishly, I peered at Gus. "Where the hell are we?"

"Wealdstone."

"Bloody hell, that must be twelve miles from the City. How did you find me?"

"Took some doing, your Lordship, but me gel Hil heard a drover say he seed you out by Shepherd’s Bush, so we tracked you from there."

I brushed myself off gingerly. My head still pained me. "Why so much effort, if I might ask?"

"Got news. Got all kinds of news, your Lordship," said Gus, grinning excitedly.

"Very well," I said. "Let us hail a cab, and while we go back to Londontown, you shall tell me what titbits you have managed to scrounge up and I shall try to clear the cobwebs out of my brain that the witch saw fit to put there."

"Witch?" said Gus, furrowing his brow.

"Never you mind," I said loftily. "Back to London!"

The Requirement

2008-08-25T12:25:00.000-07:00

Walker and I met two days later for coffee and pastries at the salon owned by the two Negroes. At this occasion we were served by the taller of the two, who persistently and cryptically made remarks about "that play about which everyone is talking," "that popular book," and "the famous singer who sings that song."

"So you have a plan," said Walker.

"Indeed I do. It took some doing, but I managed to contrive a scheme fully capable of taking Sir Julius for all he is worth."

"Most excellent!" exclaimed Walker.

"True, but I have a scheme of my own with which I shall require help. I hope you are up to it."

"By all means," Walker said. “Since you are so kind as to assist me in my matter, I will assist you in yours.”

"Capital." I leaned in close. "We shall need a number of specialty items and a modestly sized contingent of confederates."

"That shall not be a difficulty; my funds run exceedingly ample, and I am certain that we may be able to find what you need here in London."

"Very well. But I shall need you to play a role or two, here and there."

"I have no objection," Walker said. "All visible gentlemen, man, are but as pasteboard masks, after all."

"Then it is settled. We shall need a gentleman of distinguished features, two cocky gamblers, a pair of buxom wenches, a master forger, three young rapscallions, a crooked casino, an old priest, a young priest, and the address of a reputable but slow-witted banker."

Walker settled back in his chair, an expression of bemused admiration on his face. "That is quite the list," he said.

"Yes, yes it is," I said with a laugh. "Now, here is what we do..."

The Club

2008-08-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

I felt no great urgency to visit Mister Mills at his place of business, nor to make my face known to him. Therefore whilst I waited for young Gus to return with tidings of Sir Julius, I whiled away the hours at play in Londontown. Now it is very often the ambition of a young man to have friends of the highest sort, and the best and most enjoyable manner of acquiring said friends is by achieving membership in a club, preferably a suitably exclusive and august body.

My own tastes run rather to the rakish, and for four or five years I had attempted membership in the highest and most desirable clubs, and had been repeatedly denied. Being a man of equanimity and sang-froid, I took these rejections with a light heart. Still, it was a cause of some concern to me that I had failed in this ambition. I resolved, since I was besieged by boredom, to rectify the matter.

Of all the clubs in London, none is more exclusive than Brooks and Almack’s, in St. James’s Street. A finely designed structure of the most noble and elegant architecture houses as aristocratic a body of men as this land has ever seen. Walpole was a member, as were Pitt, Fox, and Burke—truly a diverse grouping, to be sure. Indeed, even the Prince of Wales belonged, and I had long coveted a membership.

Therefore I resolved to apply once more, and by the light of a flickering candle a few evenings after my visit to the Worshipful Painter-Stainers, I wrote a most persuasive letter to the Chairing Committee:

Dear Most Honourable and Noble Sirs,

I write with the greatest appreciation for your August Club and Society and respectfully submit an Application to you for membership. It is my most sincere hopes that you will take into account my Illustrious and Noble heritage, which I am pleased to boast stretches through history to the Conquest and prior to that in the fiefs and halls of Normandy, and also my fine education in those hallowed halls of Learning Eton and Oxford. My wit and dash will, I daresay, make me an excellent and lively addition to your Society, and it is with greatest anticipation and eagerness that I look forward to receiving your response.

With Most Humble and Solicitous Regards, Your Servant,
Dennis Henry Ambrose St. Michel, Viscount of Stokington and Baron of Great Stoke

Carefully folding the paper and dripping wax upon the fold, I stamped my seal upon it. Then I handed it to one of the inn’s servant with detailed instructions to deliver it promptly.

I was on tenterhooks for the next few days, waiting with baited breath. Neither Walker nor ‘Gallant’ Gus nor Edward Mills had sent word of their activities (although I expected no such missive from the last) and so my entrenchment into boredom continued. I wandered the city, taking in the myriad sights, purchasing fresh apples and other fruits from vendors in its bustling markets, visiting museums and libraries as my fancy took me. I found a most excellent volume of Tasman, translated out of the Dutch, and for a few hours I was most amused by his accounts of adventures in Nieuw Zeeland. Still, that diversion was at best temporary, and after I left the library I found myself feeling dull and dispirited.

O how my spirits were lifted that day, when I returned to my rooms at the Tabard! O how my hopes were dashed when I unfolded the fine parchment to discover, in words of elegant Copperplate, the following:

To the Most Noble and Honourable Viscount of Stokington,

Sir, while we must admit we are pleased by your choosing to correspond with us in regards to membership, we must respectfully decline your entreaty. Unfortunately, reports of your Scandalous Exploits among the brothels and taverns of Oxfordtown and of gaming and horse speculation in Eton have reached our ears, and at this time it is the esteemed opinion of the Chairing Committee that admitting your August Person to our Society would irreparably besmirch and blacken the fine name of Brooks’s, and make us little more than a house of Ill-Repute such as can be found in any back-alley of Southwark or high-street of Philadelphia. We hope this missive finds you well, and we respectfully remain,

John Cholmondeley, Esq.
Brooks’s Private Secretary

I must admit, my face fell a bit at this. Nevertheless, it was always pleasant to receive such a firm vote of confidence from the tut-tutters and naysayers of High Society. It meant I was irritating the proper people. I was, however, slightly offended by the mention of "horse speculation." I appreciate horses, and a good horse race, but let me be clear: it is not speculation the way I do it.

I tried to be happy and gay despite this set back. This took some doing. Day and night I raged, shaking my fist as Lear did towards the heavens. I drank deep of gin and brandy. I smoked any number of fine cigars, fuming under my breath. I vowed vengeance, public humiliation. I tried to distract myself in books, in plays, in little works of poesy. I was counseled towards reason by the landlord, but I would not listen to reason, for reason always means what someone else has got to say. I raged, I fumed, I hated, I groaned in fury, I unleashed my wrath on the servants.

I applied to Boodle’s and was accepted the very next day.

Boodle’s is admittedly rather more louche than Brooks’s. As it so happens, though, I was considered by the fine gentlemen at Boodle’s to be prime material for membership, and so it happened that the following Friday evening I found myself at the gaming tables, of which Boodle’s has ever so many, drinking truly excellent brandy and increasing my wealth most hastily. Cutting the proper figure, I lounged in my chair, my cravat loosened, my hair disheveled, and my waistcoat most scandalously unbuttoned (I assure the ladies who may be reading these works, top button only. I have some standards.). Still, I was winning, and that breeds happiness in even the stingiest misanthrope’s heart.

Besides myself at the table, there was the usual collection of nobles and gentry, as well as a few exotic foreigners. Across the table a group of huge Danes gambled their money as though it were rubbish. One fellow, a bear of a man with a thick red beard whose name I heard as Fryktelig, seemed to be the leader, and fortunately for me and everyone else at the table was winning. Roaring with laughter, swinging a pitcher of beer, and wrapping his enormous meaty arms around his companions, he seemed the very image of Falstaffian pleasure. After one particularly fortuitous hand he cried, "De har steder som dette i Oslo ikke!" which I took to be a Danish cry of thanks to the Norse god of baccarat.

Some hours after my gambling had begun, rather the worse for alcohol, I was startled to discover a uniformed footman standing at my elbow. Apparently, he had been standing there for some time. In my experience, this situation usually precedes one being bodily ejected from an establishment. Therefore my first action was to hastily down the remainder of my drink. My second action was to scoop my winnings into my pockets as fast as possible. My third, and most belated, action was to realise I had not egregiously swindled anyone, nor insulted a duke, nor vomited on a courtesan, which is what usually triggers an ejection from one’s club.

I straightened myself with alcoholic dignity. "What d’you want?" I managed to slur this with minimal incomprehension on the part of the servant.

A most superior fellow, he had apparently seen young nobles in much worse condition than I, and merely replied, "There is a young...boy, for want of a better word, asking to see you, my Lord."

"Where?"

"At the servants’ entrance, my Lord."

"Take me to him," I said, wobbling only slightly. "Lay on, MacDuff."

The footman wove his way through the throng, as I somewhat precariously followed him. Eventually we reached the hot and crowded kitchen, and then the alleyway behind the club. The blast of heat from the ovens followed by the chill of the outdoors did much to return me to sobriety, and as a result I was not much surprised when young Gus grinned up at me from the bowl of soup he balanced delicately on his knees.

"He looks like a skeleton," said the footman with distaste. "I thought he needed some feeding, so I gave him some thin gruel, my Lord."

Gus held up the bowl. "Please, sir, I’d like some more."

"I wouldn’t, from the look of that," I said. "Have an Earl of Sandwich." I retrieved the somewhat inexplicable remains of the delicacy from inside a spacious pocket, where it had apparently migrated in the fashion of its species, with the distant hope of being eaten some day, most likely in a drunken stupor. Handing it to Gus, who eagerly tore into it as though it had not spent several hours in a silken hell, I upturned a bucket and sat upon it.

"I assume you have some news," I said after the footman had left us.

"Absolutely, Lordship," he said around a mouthful of bread and meat. "I’ve got me mates Hans and Fritz on his Nibs day and night, but they’ll want paying."

"Tell them to come with you next time, and I shall be sure they get their shillings. Now, what of Sir Julius."

"I didna crack the hogshead once, Lordship, and I got some pretty stuff resulting-wise."

"Go ahead."

"His Nibs, he acts like a right lambskin man when he’s out with his Parly mates, but I seed him strap a black-a-moor to a jigger and flog seven kinds of ‘ell out of him. Did it ‘imself, too. He only plays at being the crip."

"Well, I knew that already. What else?"

Gus swallowed heartily. "I ‘ung around his house when he was there. Grand old place. Nice floors. Not a richard in sight. Must be nice to live so high." He sighed, and rubbed his small forehead with his fingers. "His wife, his first one, she’s dead. Cholera. Got him a son, growed up though, so he’s a man. Wears the scarlet, that one."

"He’s a soldier?"

"Aye, a real lef-tenant. His Nibs, though, he married again. Some dell from the Germanies. He don’t dock her, but I don’t know why. I seen her in her buntlings," he grinned, and then tried to twist his face into a leer, which due to his young age he failed to achieve. "Pfwah, what a pair of--"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"But his Nibs, he’s right jealous, keeps his dolly-mop locked up tight, he does. Buys her all sorts of things, though. I guess it keeps her happy."

"But what of Sir Julius?”

“Him? He’s right prompt about everything. Prompt to his carriage, prompt to the slave-yards, prompt back ‘ome. He don’t drink, he don’t gaff, he don’t even lollop when he takes his tea! This one, he’s a right thorough churchman. I mean, everything looks right iffen you don’t look too close."

I frowned. This might prove more difficult than I first imagined. "Anything else?"

Gus shrugged. "No, not hardly. His Nibs’ got a running man, name of Bumstead. Bit of a berk, if you ask me. Real penny-wise and pound-foolish. Eats a lot, though, out of His Nibs' larder and don’t imagine His Nibs cares for that at all. He might be a petticoat pensioner, though."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

A roguish smile. "He’s always hanging ‘round the lady of the house. Never lets her be."

I looked at him sceptically. "And Sir Julius allows that?"

"This Bumstead, he’s a berk, I tole you! Her ladyship wouldn’t look a brass farthing at him."

"And the son?"

"Oh he’s alright. Plays a bit o’ cards, likes the turf, you know. Don’t think he’s a picaroon, but he’s a bit sharp. Name of Jasper Dithers, esquire."

"And that’s all you have?"

"You know it, Lordship."

I handed him sixpence. "Bring your friends next time, and I shall give them their wages. Besides, you will need them. I have someone else for you to follow."

Gus beamed. "I’m turning into a right Isaac Gulliver," he said, and, pocketing the sixpence, turned and darted off into the night. Godspeed, young Gus, I thought.

My youthful spy had turned up some valuable information. Sir Julius appeared to have no weaknesses. "Appeared" being the key word. They were there, if one knew how to look for them. And I knew how to look. Sir Julius was finished, he merely did not know it yet.

The Guild

2008-08-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

Lest my Noble Readers believe erroneously that I had forgotten my promise to Mademoiselle Margot, I assure you that I had not. My discussion with her had revealed that this gentleman to whom she was engaged resided, and indeed laboured, in Londontown. While young Gus kept watch over Sir Julius, I decided that I would uncover this Mills character to whom Mademoiselle Margot had so impetuously pledged her heart.

Unfortunately for me, I had no idea of in what endeavour Mills was currently engaged. After returning to the Tabard, I resolved to discover what his business was the following day. I was also left with the Mystery of the Gentleman with Thistle-down Hair. As Gus had no clue as to his identity, I decided to let that particular enigma sit, and instead focused on tracking to ground the elusive Mr. Mills.

The next day dawned hot. By mid-morning it was already quite warm, and I fancied that it might become extremely clement by noon. As such I left behind my heavy redingote and wore only a simple frock coat. Still, I fancied I cut quite the fashionable figure as I made my way to Ironmonger Lane. Here I found the guildhall of the Most Worshipful Company of Mercers. If anyone would know where this fellow Mills earned his coin, it would be they.

An hour later, after many kind (and not-so-kind) inquiries with most nearly every mercer I encountered, I discovered that the Mercers did not know Mills’ business, or indeed anything of Mills at all. I left stewing in frustration.

The Grocers, the Drapers, the Skinners, the Tallow Chandlers—I daresay I made a nuisance of myself, visiting every guildhall in the City. And out of every guildhall I emerged empty-handed.

My prediction as to the day’s weather turned accurate by mid-afternoon, and I found myself sweltering in the heat. A dipper of water from a nearby well soon quenched my thirst, but the sun still beat down upon me, so I retreated to the shade cast by a convenient building.

It was most aggravating to have met with such failure. Still, I kept up hope. Now in all honesty I had little conception of how I would cause this Mills fellow to quit his engagement. But that was but a small obstacle, since I believed with all justification that Mills was an honourable man, and the only way to cause such a man to renege on a prior agreement is through guile, trickery, and deception, skills I am most happy to possess. However, I tried to avoid overconfidence, since this Mills was a prosperous man of business, and without some dissimulation no business can be carried on at all. Caution was required.

After a brief respite in the shade, I righted myself and proceeded down the lane. By chance I had wandered into Trinity Lane, and soon found myself in front of the fine guildhall of the Worshipful Company of Painter-Stainers. While I doubted that a gentleman such as Mills was purported to be would have anything to do at all with such a low group of tradesmen, I resolved to be nothing if not thorough, and decided to inquire within.

The cool of the interior contrasted quite nicely with the oven exterior. A young man sat at a finely-wrought desk, his quill scratching spidery lines of ink across cream-white paper. "May I help you, sir?" he asked, looking up.

"Yes, my good man," I replied. "I seek information on a gentleman of some note in this city, but I most sincerely doubt your company possesses information on him."

"I shall be the judge of that," smiled the young man. "What is this gentleman’s name?"

"I must confess I do not know his Christian name, but his family name is Mills."

The young man’s eyebrows jumped towards his hairline. "Would that be Edward Erick Mills, the lithographer and salon owner?"

"It may," I hazarded. "In truth, I know very little of the man, save that he comes from Dublin and now resides in London."

"That is he, most definitely," said the young secretary. "Mister Mills is indeed Hibernian. His accent is most noticeable. He has long been a member of our illustrious society."

"Then perhaps I shall seek this man out," I said.

"If he should stop in, whom shall I tell him called?"

"Mister..." I was reluctant to give my true name. I glanced out the window, seeking inspiration. My eyes lit upon the signs of the nearby enterprises. A pub: THE RINGING BELL. A tanner’s: JOHNSON AND SON LEATHER CURERS. "Mister...Bell. Currer Bell."

"Very well, Mister Bell. I shall let him know you called."

"And his address?"

"His salon is in Candlewick, near St. Mary Abchurch."

"Thank you, sir," and with that I took my leave.

Most excellent! I now knew the location of Mills’ business. And it seemed he was a patron of the artistes, which suggested any number of ways in which he could be swindled. I resolved to make use of this information at once.

Art, after all, holds a mirror up to life: everything is twisted and false.

The Boy

2008-08-19T03:35:00.000-07:00

My meeting with Walker having been most productive, I made my way through the teeming streets of London in a most congenial mood. At last I understood what Walker had been driving at; Dithers was a wealthy man, and it would almost be moral to relieve him of that wealth after what he had done in Africa. The difficulty would be in the doing of the thing.

I told Walker that I am no thief, and this is true; however, I have no great qualms about tricking a man out of his money. I give another man the opportunity to use his wits to defeat me, and if I defeat him and take his money, then that is that.

Lost in these thoughts, and with my mind clouded with visions of avarice, it took me nearly a quarter of an hour to notice I was being followed. Now, it is not uncommon to be followed in London, usually by a back-alley-man or a strumpet, but this one was unusually persistent. Once I realised I was being pursued, I made my way to the relatively deserted Spital Square. My pursuant, recognising that the sparseness of the crowd left him vulnerable to discovery, began running from building-corner to building-corner, taking every available cover. This I saw only through the corners of my eyes, and I was impressed by his ability to hide himself in an area lacking adequate hidey-holes.

At last I tired of this diversion, and watching him carefully, I waited until he had ducked behind a nearby barrel, and then hid myself behind a dray cart. As I expected, he, under the mistaken impression that I had moved on, dashed forward past the cart, and when he did so I seized him firmly, which took some doing, since from the moment I laid hands upon him he put up a titanic struggle.

"Oi, oi, lay off!" he shouted. I was holding in my arms a squirming boy of perhaps seven or eight years old, thin as a rail and with a startlingly thick head of lustrous black hair. The boy himself was heinously filthy, his clothes ragged and worn. Obviously a street urchin of some sort.

"Let go!" he cried.

"No, I don’t think I shall," I replied, distracted by the fact that, even as he made the most herculean effort to free himself, he had still managed to pick my pocket. I was impressed.

"I shall let you go if you tell me why you are following me, and not before," I informed the struggling child, and to my surprise he ceased moving immediately.

"Right, your Lordship, it’s a fair cop," he said, with surprising savoir-faire. I could not help but laugh. I put the child back on his feet, and when I released him I was mildly pleased that he did not immediately dash off.

The boy dusted himself off, looking for all the world like a society gentleman squaring himself away after a tumble from a horse. I smiled.

"What’s you want to know?" he asked.

"First, what’s your name, boy?"

"Gallant Gus," he said with some pride.

"'Gallant Gus?'" I replied with some scepticism.

He glared at me. "Augustus Aloysius Aethelbert Dallas, Esquire, at your service, sir," he said, and made a deep, mocking bow.

I guffawed; young Master Dallas was proving to be most entertaining. "Very well, Gus, why are you following me?"

"Bloke slipped me half a hog for it," he replied easily, as though this were a conversation he had every day.

"Do you spy on people often?"

"All the time," he said proudly, "and I ain't never been caught--save 'til your Grace, o' course."

"For whom do you spy?" I asked, curious.

"I spies on the Prince o' Wales, when he be in town, on account of Mister Pitt asks me to, but I do that one grattis."

"'Grattis'?"

"Means for free."

"I know what it means."

"Mister Pitt, he's a right nob, that one, so's I does it free 'cause he's the patron of my youth activities association."

I smiled. "You mean your street gang?"

"We's the sons of gentlemen, we is," he said, affronted. "Right honourable rude lads. Me da's a barrister."

"Really? And where is he now?"

"Workhouse," replied Gus carelessly.

"For whom else do you spy?" I asked.

"Well, Mademoiselle de Pompadour, her grandmum was a nugging dress over in Paree, you know?" he said. "She has me spy on Lady Hamilton, but she don't pay much, so I don't do it very often. Just a ha'penny a week, see."

"I see. You obviously move in rarefied circles, Master Dallas."

"What's 'rarefied' mean?"

"It means I have a business proposition for you."

Gus grinned. "You want me to spy for you? Not a problem, your Grace. But it'll cost."

"How much?"

"Sign of the crown a week."

"Five shillings? You, young sir, are greedy beyond your years. I shall give you sixpence a week, and for that you do as I say, and spy for no-one else."

"Deal."

"Good," I said. "Do you know Sir Julius Dithers?"

"Do I?" replied Gus. "That old fogram? Me mate Elmo was a boot-black boy at his Nibs' house, and he tried to snaffle some french cream from his Nibs' study, but he made a fox's paw of it and his Nibs caught him and put one of his hocks into young Elmo’s nutmegs, he did!" Gus managed a fairly decent indignation at this outrage done to his fellow sharper.

"So you would not mind doing Sir Julius a harm?"

"Not in the slightest, your Grace."

"Good. I want you to follow Sir Julius everywhere he goes, and I mean everywhere. Get some of your friends to help if you need to. I shall pay them also."

"Cor," said Gus, his eyes wide. "You’re not half generous, a real princox. But why all the hugger mugger? Is his Nibs a French spy? Is that the run?"

I laughed. "No, nothing like that. 'Tis a personal matter. Now, one last thing: Who has been spying on me?"

Gus looked thoughtful. "Don't know his name. Funny, that. But a right tall fellow, taller than you."

"Well, I’m not very tall."

"Taller than me," he said evenly.

"This tall man, did he have dark hair?" I asked, thinking of Walker.

"No, no. His 'air was kind of silvery, like thistle-down. He nicks me outside the Wandering Monk and says, 'You're a likely looking lad, how would you like to make a shilling?' I says 'No hazard, governor,' I says, and he says, 'There's a nobleman staying at the Tabard, young, with blonde 'air and he dresses real flash. Go and tell me what he does.' So I does it."

"Well, I do not know any gentlemen with thistle-down hair. And you do not know his name?"

"No, no. Right queer, me not getting his name. I guessen I forgot to ask. But a shilling's a shilling."

"Right. You work for me now, young Augustus, and don't you forget it. Oh, and Gus?"

"Yes, your Grace?"

"Give me back my pocketbook."

He handed it over most reluctantly. "Thank you. Run along now."

Gus flashed a cheeky grin, and dashed off into the swelling afternoon crowd. He looked like a competent boy, but then I only know two sorts of boys. Mealy boys and honest-faced boys. The latter of which steal every damn thing that is not nailed down the moment your back is turned, and young Gus looked to be this sort. Which was good for me, since I could use a young ding boy to do my dirty work.

Soon I would have some knowledge regarding Sir Julius, and knowledge, as they say, is power.

The Offer

2008-08-18T13:13:00.000-07:00

"Diamonds?" I said. "But you stated these stones were red."

"Indeed I did," replied Walker. "Rare pink diamonds, to be precise. Found nowhere else on earth. It is my belief that Sir Julius, hearing of them, decided to ‘kill two birds with one stone,’ as it were, and plunder the nation of both its people and minerals."

"I still fail to see my connexion," I said.

"It is simple, my friend. I seek to revenge myself and my people upon Sir Julius. I have already eliminated the option of violence. Therefore, I have resolved to take something precious from him. I would like you to steal the diamonds."

I took a quick drink of coffee while I squelched my indignation. "Sir, I fear you have misjudged me. I am no thief. If that is all," I said, rising to leave, "then I shall bid you good day."

"Wait a moment," he said, grasping my wrist, and seeing my desire to leave, added, "please."

I sat.

"You are correct, I have misjudged you. My apologies." His voice was somewhat hoarse.

"Accepted," I said, somewhat stiffly.

To my shock, Walker dropped his head suddenly into his hands. "By God, I despair," he gasped. "In truth, I have no more schemes, no more plots. I had pinned all my hopes upon you. Will this fiend never be punished for his crimes?"

I felt a great wave of pity swell within me, which was an unfamiliar emotion. A second, unfamiliar emotion followed fast on its heels, and it took me a few moments to realise that it was some form of guilt. Walker had saved me at the Captain’s house; would I now abandon him to his fate? Would the lives and freedom of countless Negroes never be avenged?

"Be of good cheer," said a voice, and I was startled to discover it was my own. "While I shall not steal, I shall be as the wasp or the hornet, and I shall think of some other method by which to sting Sir Julius."

Walker looked at me with something akin to hope. "You shall?"

"I shall," I replied, in all seriousness. "I am your man." Thievery did not appeal to me, but if I could think of some other method to relieve this foul slave trader of his wealth, then why not? After all, many tricksters lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works. Why should I be any different?

The Stones

2008-08-18T11:48:00.000-07:00

While I must admit I found Walker’s story to be most engrossing, in truth I could not see how it pertained to me, nor how it might lead to an enriching of myself. I said as much.

Walker gave a rueful chuckle. "Yes, I imagine you’re quite lost. So was I, when I realised precisely who my adversary was. Do not worry, shortly I shall reveal to you the part I wish you to play. In the mean, I must continue my tragic tale.

"When I saw Sir Julius standing there, as proud and reputable as a cockerel, it was only the distance between us that saved his life, for I had sat, as I informed you, in the rear of the chamber. Realising that any attempt to rush the podium should alert Sir Julius to the danger and provide him time to escape, I left the room, fuming in frustration. Once outside, my anger cooled slightly.

"I realised that I was no murderer. Revenge, such as it was, would not be served by descending to the depths of depravity currently inhabited by my nemesis. I would need to strike at him another way.

"I made inquiries, around and about Town, as to the extent and nature of Sir Julius’ business. In doing so, I discovered that Sir Julius had been involved in the trade and sale of human beings for many years, and had grown fat upon the sweat of their suffering. But his expedition to the Bangallan coast was different. Most of his slaves, I learned through discreet questioning, came from the West of Africa. Bangalla lies in the East. Why would he travel many hundreds of leagues out of his way for something he could get in waters most familiar to him?

"This was most curious to me. For days, the answer eluded me, no matter how many of his servants, hangers-on, and lackeys I questioned. The man himself I never met, fearing that in his presence I would lose control and throttle the despicable creature.

"Eventually I made a startling discovery as to the reason for Sir Julius’ expedition to Bangalla, via a most unusual source. It seems that Sir Julius, his first wife having long since expired, had recently remarried, and Lady Dithers—her maiden name is Büpadüp, a German—had brought into Sir Julius’ house a number of new servants. One of these, a scullery maid, had been dismissed for attempting to throw out what she described to me as 'odd little stones.' These stones, which were further described as ‘brownish-red’ and ‘not fancy’, were seized from the poor lass by Sir Julius himself, who until that point had troubled himself very little with Lady Dithers’ servants. He then harshly berated her and dismissed her on the spot. I only encounter the girl by chance; her brother is still in service with Sir Julius and she overheard us discussing him."

"And the stones?" I asked.

"Could only be one thing," he stated. "Bangalla is wealthy in many natural goods—ivory, spices, even a little gold—but of precious stones it is surprisingly lacking. However, among the empires and colonies of Africa the country is well-known for the rare reddish stones found on the slopes of Mount Mlima."

"Which are?" I asked, interested despite myself and irritated at his dramatics.

Obviously he was pleased with the suspence, for he took a deep drink of coffee, making me wait, before answering.

"Diamonds, your Lordship. The stones Sir Julius stole from my people were diamonds."

The Tale

2008-08-15T11:52:00.000-07:00

Walker seated himself, and once Monsieur H had returned with pastries and more coffee, he began.

"As you have no doubt been apprised by Samuel Driver, I have been engaged for many years in the enterprise of African exploration. This passion for the Dark Continent began when I was a small child, and I visited the Portuguese port of Lourenço Marques. There I saw many fascinating sights--elephants, lions, and gyraphs. I also met many fine Negroes.

"It is a commonplace in both the courts and villages of Europe, particularly in England, that the Negro is inferior to the European. However, I must say I have never found this to be the case. In fact, many of them impressed me with their manners and wit, which I found in every case to be superior to the venal and corrupt traders from the so-called civilized ports of the Channel and Mediterranean. In truth, I soon became enamored with the African way of life, and sought every opportunity to increase the width and breadth of my knowledge.

"In time, as is customary, I became a man. Once at liberty to comport myself as I wished, I dwelt in Africa the whole and sum of the hours available to me. From the broad plains of Kenya to the deepest jungles of the Congo, I ventured into every corner of that great landmass. I was enraptured, as a man with his first woman.

"But in time my love seemed to sour. From the beginning, I was aware of the great wealth of that land, prodigious in riches and teeming with opportunity. Diamonds in the Congo Basin, gold among the Rowzee, precious woods and ivory from the Coasts of Ivory--all these things were there to be taken, and the worst of men emerged to take them. Cruel, vicious, and rapacious, these men sought to rob the land of every good thing. Both European and Negro, their behaviour soon came to disgust me, and I felt the vilest creature in existence when I was in their presence.

"My love for Africa was spoilt, and my faith in my fellow man--and in Europe--shattered. Civilization, after all, is only savagery silver-gilt. In despair, I followed my lord rum into the Slough of Despond, and became the most crapulent man alive.

"From port to port, I traveled in search of debasement. Every harlot and taverner below the Sahara knew my face, if not my name. At last it seemed even to me that I would do myself an irreparable harm, and so, with the last of my reis, I bought passage on a ship bound for a land of which I had never heard: Bangalla.

"Drunk and in a state of gross dishabille, I arrived in Mawitann, which is the capitol. I must confess, the first several days I spent in the city are lost to me. In time, my sensibilities returned to me. And I found myself amongst the people with whom I would spend the next ten years of my life.

"And what people! A quiet, peaceful village, Mawitann is filled with the kindest, most virtuous men in creation. At least, that is my opinion, and I will hear none gainsay it. In courage they exceed the Germans, in wit the French, in stoutheartedness even the English. And their food cannot be compared with that of the Italians, only with that of Heaven. But what is more, the natives there soon took me in hand and brought me back into a state of discipline and sobriety. I came to regard them as my brothers, and they me. I roamed far and wide throughout their broad land, and met everywhere I went with the most noble Negroes.

"I was most happy there.

"To earn a living, I acted as interpreter for the traders who came into Mawitann. Many of the same rapacious gluttons who had driven me to despair elsewhere in Africa sailed into that graceful port. But now I felt much more assured in my dealings with them, as I found myself able to act as protector for the natives, preventing the evilest of the outsiders from harming them through violence or trickery. And in time I came to be regarded with the highest prestige, as an honest and incorruptible man.

"In the course of time, I was called on some business to the Cape Colony, for nearly six months. I found my time there agreeable, but always the streets and structures of the city reminded me of the earlier times, the bad times, and I dreamt nightly of returning to Bangalla. When the time and hour came to return, I was the happiest man in Africa. I boarded the vessel taking me to Mawitann with the greatest of joy. I looked forward with eagerness to seeing old friends again. As we sailed into Mawit Bay, I could see the glow of the village’s cookfires from beyond the cape. How happy I was as we rounded the cape and sailed into the bay!

"The village was aflame.

"The horror, the horror! As the ship eased into one of the quays I leapt with all urgency onto the dock and dashed into the city. The straw and wood huts burned merrily, seeming in mockery of my earlier joy, and everywhere I saw corpses, corpses of men, corpses of women, corpses of children.

"In a kind of madness, I ran towards the house of my friend, Lua-Ga, the chieftain of the village. Smoke and flames clouded my vision, or was it tears? At last I found my friend.

"His chest had been staved in, but still he breathed. 'Walker, my friend,' he gasped.

"'Yes, I am here,' I said.

"'My friend...my friend.' His voice was hoarse, and thick, as though filled with blood.

"'Tell me how I might ease your burden, old friend,' I whispered, tears streaming down my face. 'Who did this?'

"'Slavers...white men...from the...east. White...like you.' Like you. The words seemed to bore into my mind. Like you. Had I doomed my friends? Doomed a people I loved?

"In my arms Lua-Ga breathed his last. I wept for him. I wept for them all."

For a long time, Walker was silent. The depth of emotion he had revealed moved me, but I said nothing. It seemed obscene to say anything. The horrors he had seen made my own plight as nothing.

"I buried them. (Walker continued.) It took many days. But I could not leave my brothers to rot under the hot sun. And in the course of performing such funerary rites, my grief fell away from me, leaving only a core of rage. Vengeance must be had."

A chill ran up my spine. Would I be constantly plagued by men with thoughts of revenge? Without noticing my consternation, Walker went on.

"I began to track the slavers. In my time among the Bangallans, I learned many of the secrets, and with their ancient jungle wisdom I was able to follow the slavers to Mzizima, the great Arab city on the coast. A city of sparkling minarets and the call of the muezzin, but most of all famed for its slave market.

"Dressed in the robes of a most proper imam, I followed the gossip through the Servants’ Quarter, through the Camel Gate, almost to the steps of the Green Mosque itself, and heard the story of thousands of black Africans from the south--Bangalla being in the south--who had been sold to a powerful mzungu, a white man.

"I had tarried long in Mawitann burying my friends, and was almost too late. The last shipment of slaves, bound for the Colonies, was being loaded, and would leave with the evening tide.

"With great haste I bolted for the docks, for the tide would rise within the hour, and the last of my adopted people would be sent to enslavement or worse in the New World. I must have struck a strange sight--a tall mzungu in imam’s robes sprinting through the crowded marketplace. But I cared none for my appearance. Almost before I realised it I was at the piers, where the slave-ships sat like hulking prisons afloat.

"I was too late. The last ship slipped free of its moorings as I dashed to the end of the pier. I watched with hopeless fury as my bosom friends were taken from me, bound for captivity. But at the last, I saw something that drove me to even greater heights of rage: the mzungu, the white man, who had done all this.

"He appeared at the aft of the ship. I do not think he saw me. Ancient and stooped, with a walrus-mustache beneath a hawk’s nose, he hardly cut an imposing figure, but the fineness of his clothing and the elegance of his tricorn indicated a man of great wealth and prosperity. For only a moment I saw him. And then he was gone."

Walker drank deeply of his coffee, and was silent for a time, apparently lost in memory. I knew not what this tale had to do with me, but I listened with rapt interest to it, enthralled by the accounts of wickedness in exotic climes.

Putting down his cup, he continued. “This was nearly four months ago. Needless to say, after such tragedy I drifted. Africa held little charm for me, and so I returned to the land of my birth. The only thing that kept me alive, kept me sane, was the thought that one day I could have revenge on the old man in fine clothes. I lived for that day.

"Once in London, I was at a loss as to what to do next. I decided, after much contemplation, to write my memoirs."

Really! What a fascinating idea, I thought. I should do that someday.

"But the tasks of authorship soon felt onerous and heavy upon my shoulders, and so I whiled away my days visiting the fashionable parts of the city. The finest salons, most beautiful galleries, I visited them all. I even toured the country, wasting great sums--great, at least, to me--in gambling and other vice.

"One day, not long after you and I met at the Captain’s, I chose to watch a session of Parliament. The exquisitely wrought halls of Westminster were that day excessively hot, and I chose to take a seat high in the upper galleries, hoping to escape the crush of barristers and law-makers that dominated the floor.

"The speeches were most tedious, but their subject was not. The regulation of slavery, a subject of great interest to me, as you might imagine. So I attended to the wind proceeding from the floor most carefully. Still, the hot, stifling air made me drowse.

"But I was jolted sharply awake after many dull hours. An opponent of the bill had risen and begun to speak, arguing most vociferously for the free trade of human flesh and sweat. Imagine my shock when I realised it was none other than the old man in fine clothes!

"He was here, in London. Feted by society and an honourable Member of Parliament. It took me very little work to discover his name."

Walker’s eyes bored into me, and I felt the intensity coming off him like waves.

"My enemy was one of the richest men in London: Sir Julius Dithers."

The Salon

2008-08-14T13:14:00.000-07:00

O what a happy man who finds himself young and in London! The rain-soaked brick and cobble of Piccadilly glistened in the afternoon sun, which had at long last shed its bashfulness and emerged from the all-encompassing clouds. Every surface and plane seemed to me to be aglow with light, and as I gazed out of the carriage I met each passerby with a cheery smile and brash bonhomie.

Hobbes was left well behind, and I had arrived in the greatest city in the world. London, city of lights! The rented carriage clattered through crowded streets, weaving between fruitsellers, natty lads, fullers, and mohocks. The din and sin of the city rose up in contrast to its exquisite charms. Prostitutes mingled with politicians and poets; for the man with money, all could be had. In short, a city in which I was a most natural denizen.

I quickly found lodgings at the Tabard; ‘tis truly amazing what one can do when one has money. I dined that evening on good chicken stew, and found blessed sleep. The fact that I was many miles from my enemy, who in his bedraggled state no doubt would, should he decide to come to London, cover the intervening distance on foot, made my slumber most restful.

In the morning, I awoke to birdsong. The rain had finally broken, and the sun had emerged permanently. A warmth of adventure and prospective excitement filled me as I dressed neatly in coat, breeches, and waistcoat. With watch and fob I presented the proper gentleman, and I decided to breakfast at a certain salon whose name I had been given in Spitalfields.

The streets were still somewhat muddy as I made my way through the tumultuous crowds of London. Hawkers offered me every treasure from the far corners of the world, exquisitely crafted the day prior in Bethnal Green. Doxies offered their wares with great generosity as I passed their shabby and worn doorways. At least twice young dimber-dambers tried to snake my coin-purse, but with a quick hand and a sharp cuff to the ear sent the pick-pockets on their way penniless. In all, a good morning, and I whistled as I came up to the salon recommended to me by Mr. Walker.

It was an oddly spare place, somehow lacking in detail and precision. How this was possible in a building I do not know, but the only proper way to describe its architecture was generic. I was greeted by a small, rotund Negro, his upper lip surmounted by a bristling mustache. The Negro appeared the very height of prosperity, his full stomach filling out the nondescript waistcoat he wore most elegantly.

"Good day, good day, good day!" he said, smiling.

"Good day," I replied. "I am the Viscount Stokington."

"Most pleased to meet you," he replied, with a slight but noticeable accent. "Most pleased!"

Nonplussed, I stumbled conversationally for a moment, then continued. "And your name is..."

The Negro continued to smile, but his eyes betrayed a hint of panic. "A name? I am the short one with the hair on his lip! My partner is the tall one with the hair on his chin! We are purveyors of beverages and gossip. Did you hear of the poet whose scandalous behavior has shocked the city? Or the nobleman who has gotten into trouble? Or the general who has won all the victories?"

Now I was truly lost for words. My confusion must have been evident, for he asked, "Have you come for our black beverage with flavor?"

"You mean coffee? I am sorry, but--A...a Mr. Walker told me to meet him here, for business?" I pleaded.

With this revelation, the tension seemed to ease from the little man. "Ah yes! The man who walks! Come this way."

I followed him to a small table, where he bade me sit, and soon I had a steaming cup of coffee. With, as the small Negro had promised, flavor.

A goodly hour passed, and I drank several cups of coffee from the ceramic pot the Negro had left before disappearing back in the kitchens. While my thirst was quenched, my host had neglected to provide me with anything in the way of sustenance, and I was soon famished. When next he emerged from the back rooms, I hailed him.

"Good sir, would it be possible for me to get a bun or even a profiterole?"

"You mean a confection made of pastry cut in half and filled with whipped cream?"

I hesitated. "Yes, precisely."

"Remember, sir, a king’s son is not nobler than his food," and with that he bustled off.

"What an odd person," I mused. "And what a bizarrely circumlocutious manner of speaking."

"You must forgive Monsieur H and his friend Monsieur J," boomed an unearthly voice from behind me. I turned and found myself presented with a tall man, draped in a porphyritic cloak. His burning eyes were shadowed by his furrowed brow. "You see, they come from a tribe in darkest Africa where it is considered the very worst luck to speak the proper name of something. They will not even speak their own names, and it took the devil’s own work for me to winkle them out of them."

"Mr. Walker," I said, with a smile. I rose and made a proper bow.

"I am glad you could come, and it is fitting that you should meet me here, where it is patently obvious that the Negro prospers when given the chance."

"Fitting how, my friend?"

"It was obvious to me when we met at Captain Brutus’ house that you were an adventurer and gambler and gentleman of fortune. I need such a man, with such skills, now."

"You flatter me."

"On the contrary," he replied, his voice deep with foreboding. "Even what talents you possess may not be up to the task. This is no mere parlor game. The fate of an entire continent is at stake!"

The Duchess

2008-08-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

From the Yang Collection: Duchess in Hat (John Constable, Oil on Canvas, 1792)

The Friend

2008-08-13T14:25:00.001-07:00

From the Royal Gallery: The Honourable Joseph Charles Hastings MacDonald, Baronet of Little Stoke (Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oil on Canvas, 1796)

The Recovery

2008-08-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

I was somewhat shaky after my encounter with the fiendish Calvin Hobbes, so with the help of the Professor, I made my way to the study and downed a dram of brandy. Miss Thompson saw to the cut on my forehead, proving that her dowdy exterior housed a most capable nurse.

"Who was that devil?" asked the Professor as he handed me a cup of tea.

"An old friend," I replied.

"He hardly seemed the friendly sort to me," sniffed the Professor. "Someone you’ve swindled at cards, perhaps?"

"On the contrary, I know him well. Or thought I did."

"Then what was the cause of that rumpus?"

"Would you believe a plate of pasta? But the details are far too ludicrous to recount. Besides, my...friend always insisted no blame could be attached to him," I said.

The Professor gave me a suspicious look, but let my comment pass. “It is far too dangerous for you here if a madman seeks your demise. He may be lurking in any alley you like, ready to spring forth and slide a dirk betwixt your ribs. Something must be done."

"Yes, I must make haste to London."

"So you are still resolved to discover what business Mr. Walker has for you?"

"Indeed I am, Professor, moreso, in fact, than I was." With that, I rose and made my way back to my room.

The floor was spattered with my blood and with the rain that had fallen when Hobbes had made his hasty exit. I frowned at the sight of my inherent mortality, but resolved that it should not be an omen for my coming voyage. London in all its splendor awaited.

Still, my mind continued to drift back to Hobbes. He would return. I knew it as I knew the sun, as I knew my own face. Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than lust. His quest for that unholy grail, vengeance, would bring him back to me as surely as the crusader gravitates towards Jerusalem.

But I would be ready. He would not catch me unawares again. I packed my things in the grim determination that, should Hobbes make another assault upon my person, I would deflect it with greatest alacrity. I might meet him a second time, but there would be no third.

I decided I would sleep on the coach. My excited demeanour would not allow me rest, so after my wardrobe had been carefully secured, I addressed letters to both Margaret and Joseph, informing them with the utmost humility that I apologised for the great haste in which I was leaving Stokington, but that the demands of business required my presence henceforth in London, and could not wait.

Giving these epistles to a servant, I made my fare-thee-wells to Miss Thompson and the Professor. As much as it pains me to admit, the old fellow had grown on me, and truly I knew then that I would miss his company in London. Then I mounted the carriage, and in the early morning gloom, I was off.

Glittering London awaits!

The Nemesis

2008-08-13T04:06:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night. The frightening visage of a vengeful madman was illuminated only by the occasional flashes of lightning. The storm outside raged on, as inside I engaged with a lunatic.

"Cast out from Oxford, disowned by my family for squandering what little wealth they could summon," snarled Hobbes. "Misfortune after misfortune, all due to you!"

"To me? 'Twas you who gave offense, you who insisted upon blades at dawn. You who are to blame for any misfortune that may have fallen upon you!"

Truly, the prospect of being skewered by my most notorious enemy did not fill me with joy. At Oxford, Hobbes had been a shabby, worn figure, minuscule in his second-hand clothing bought, no doubt, from some dealer in the East End. In short, the object of our schoolboy pranks and japes. After the termination of some particularly scandalous jest, he would fly into a characteristic rage, the timbre of his voice becoming almost womanly as he swore vengeance upon myself and my confederates. Still, he in turn played his share of mischief on me and my bosom chums, so while his jokes always seemed to have a more cruel and callous edge to them I considered us square. The ragged figure looming in the dusky storm-light bore little resemblance to the pompous young naïf who delighted in using a type or kind of sesquipedalian loquaciousness to mock his foes. In truth, I had found his book-learning pretentious; I know a pretty word or two, but do not feel the need to flaunt them at every interval.

O how the mighty had fallen! The once proud darling of the ministers and deans of Oxford had been reduced to a gibbering madman.

"I hope your affairs are in order, Stokington, for you are now about to die!" he croaked, his voice apparently hoarse from disuse.

Somehow, amidst the various phobic emotions coursing through my veins, I found the courage to snort at him. "The Greenwich master of poesy, resorting to such a trite threat? You enemy lies prostrate before you, and you can do no better?"

"Stifle your tongue, Stokington! I am reduced to penury, thanks to you! I am an unfortunate and deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation or friend upon earth! These amiable people amongst whom I go have never seen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for if I fail here, I am an outcast in the world forever!"

"Much better. I should think it most unsporting of me to expire while your poetical stylings were thus mediocre."

"Silence! A rapier to your heart, Stokington, and silence to your tongue!" His whole body shuddered, as though overcome by thoughts of revenge the emotion itself now threatened to break free from the confines of his form.

By this point much of my fear had deserted me. It became clear that Hobbes had not truly taken leave of his senses, but his life was as cold as an attic facing north; and revenge, like a silent spider, was weaving its web in the shadows, in every corner of his heart. An enraged man can be deal with, and during his diatribe on his suffering I had chanced to free my right hand from beneath the counterpane.

"But I speak too much, and too little," cried Hobbes. "Listen: I hear the doddering old fool’s foot upon the stair. My time grows short. I am vengeance, I am the night, I am--"

"You are unconscious," I cried, as I seized the candlestick from the bedside table and heaved it at him. My quondam schoolmate let out a squawk as the heavy brass struck him across the ear. He stumbled back, and in that opening I flung aside the sheets that had entrapt me and sprang to my feet.

Hobbes quickly recovered from the blow, and in a glittering arc he swung his blade at me. Too close, man, too close! I seized his sword-wrist firmly and, deflecting the blow, placed a punch squarely in the devil’s nose. "No!" he cried. "My revenge!"

In the eerie light of the thunderclouds that menaced the skies above we grappled. His filthy and sweat-drenched body squirmed as I attempted to fasten him into a hold. From the lower floors of the house I could hear alarums as the servants and Professor Papagoras awoke.

Hobbes struck a mighty blow to my forehead, and dazed, I tripped backwards over some cylindrical object on the treacherous floor. Blood cascaded into my eyes. “Now, come sweet death, and take him,” panted Hobbes, his voice thick with glee, as he raised his sword.

In haste, I scrabbled for the nearest object of defence—and found that my hand had alighted on the candlestick. With one desperate swing, I brought it up—and connected. The heavy base struck Hobbes’ sword hand, and with a howl he nervelessly dropped the sword.

At once I was upon him. A mighty rain of blows emanated from my fists, as properly enraged and roused to action I took my fury out upon my enemy.

Behind me, the door flew open. Professor Papagoras stood there, looking tragically comical in nightgown and with fire-poker raised above his head. The hostler and boy both stood ready behind. "What is the meaning of this ruction?" demanded the Professor in his reedy voice.

"Alas," wailed Hobbes. "I am undone!" And giving one heroic final blow, he struggled free from my grasp and dashed to the open window. Standing dramatically with one foot upon the sill, before the storm and strife that raged without, he cursed me. "This is not over, Stokington. I shall have my revenge! The next time we meet shall be the last, and I shall bring your death!"

And with that he flung himself through the portal. I stood, panting, dimly lit by the light of the hostler’s lamp.

Gone. He was gone. For now.

The Vagabond

2008-08-12T12:06:00.000-07:00

Dinner that night was an awkward affair. I had decided that discretion on my part would be best, as I did not seek to worry either the Professor or Miss Thompson. Despite this nobility on my part, I felt most aggrieved and in ill sorts. I could not imagine what individual, perhaps maddened by some unknowing action on my part, should seek me harm.

The house lay deep in shadows that night. From every crevice and corner spread creeping pools of inky blackness that threatened to rise up and engulf the unwary. The constant drumbeat of rain upon the roof proved maddening, and in such madness I came to understand the insanity that drove my unknown foe. With all haste I make my exits to the library, but what I supposed would be the warm and familiar glow of the candles served only to deepen the shadows that surrounded me. I turned my attention to a volume of Blake. An unwise choice this proved to be, as tormented by visions of Heaven and Hell, I soon retreated to that unwelcoming land that lies between sleep and wakefulness. In this melancholy and nightmarish realm, the occasional roll of thunder penetrated my consciousness like the roar of cannons.

On occasion I roused myself back towards consciousness, but my frequent draughts of brandy soon put me into an alcoholic stupor, made more frightful by the lashing rain upon the windowpane. Thus ensorcelled by spirits of an earthly variety, I became more open to the influence of spirits of a spectral sort. Every shadow made my heart pound dully in my chest, every gust of wind through the shutters drove me to heights of suspicion.

I saw no-one as the night deepened. I could have been in the house alone. Neither Miss Thompson nor the Professor saw fit to make themselves known, though I would have gladly suffered much for their company.

At long last I saw the fingers of the clock creep towards two o’ the clock, and my sense won over my bravado. I retired to bed, discontented and worried. It is a terrible thing, the unknown. Even the bravest man quails before it. After much fitful tossing and turning, Morpheus’ warm embrace greeted me. My sleep was troubled.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the world was still dark, I awoke into confusion. Some noise, some sound had disturbed my restless slumber, and I found myself trapped beneath a heavy counterpane, haunted by the echo of my own breath in the darkened room. Or was it my own breath? For several moments I held it within me, and my skin crawled as I heard the unmistakable sound of air being drawn into lungs not my own.

No coward was I. "Who’s there?" I demanded, but no response came. Only the heavy beat of rain on the gable. "Who’s there?"

"Your doom."

The voice that rasped out of the dark was hoarse with hate and rage. I struggled against the sheets, seeking to free myself and face this unseen assailant. He spoke again.

"Three weeks in woods and field and mud and rain, Stokington. Three weeks." The hairs on the back of my neck came up. The voice was familiar, very familiar, but I could not place it. But it mattered not. The madman had found me.

"You were the ruin of me, Stokington," he growled. “Now I shall be the ruin of you.” A shadow detached itself from the wall, and I wondered sickly how long this lunatic had been there. Had he been there when I came in to sleep? Had he been there when I drowsed in the library? Had he been there while Miss Thompson, the Professor and I dined? Perhaps he had come directly from the church, after assaulting young Sarah so. The thought chilled me.

The shadow raised an arm, and I saw the glint of a rapier in what little light there was. "Prepare for death, Stokington, for I am the spirit that always denies!"

A bolt of lightning exploded somewhere out on the moors, illuminating the room, and I saw him!

A slight, almost boyish frame made leaner still by hunger, enwrapped in ragged clothing that had perhaps once been fashionable. A cherubic face, so childlike in its beauty, marred only by spatters of mud and a month-long growth of beard. Long, matted golden blonde hair curtained a pair of green eyes that, sunk deep into the recesses of the skull, were filled with malice, madness, and hate. One delicate, nearly feminine hand clutched a long, rust-spotted blade. In short, the picture of madness unbound.

Worse still, I knew this man. My one-time nemesis.

"Calvin Hobbes," I whispered.

The Banns

2008-08-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

A strange effect of marriage, such as the eighteenth century has made it! The boredom of married life inevitably destroys love, when love has preceded marriage. And yet, as a rake-hell has observed, it speedily brings about, among people who are rich enough not to have to work, an intense desire for all noisy forms of enjoyment. And it is only dried up hearts, among men, that it does not predispose to love. In my latest predicament, I began to see the truth in all this, for la Duchesse and Lady Margaret both insisted I stay at least two more days in Stokington, so that I might be present for the crying of the banns in the local pulpit on the following Sunday.

The local gentry were resplendent in their finery during the vicar’s sermon. The Most Reverend Dr. Staneglass is well known in Devonshire for the sheer tedium of his homilies, so I amused myself by imagining what private sins these pillars of the community might have committed.

I counted myself exceedingly lucky that for the past decade my mother and father had seen fit to employ the services of a chaplain at Menacing House, thus relieving them of the obligation to attend Sunday services and allowing me to avoid meeting them that fateful Sunday. Thus was avoided a public brawl in a rectory, which even for such a debauched person as myself would have been somewhat scandalous. Still, I felt quite respectable seated next to Margaret and her mother in a front-row pew. Behind me I could hear the scandalised and outraged whispers of the town elders, particularly the Widow Worth, a frighteningly aggressive meddler in the affairs of lads and lasses alike. Naturally, I ignored the decrepit old crone’s malicious susurrus to her eunuch companion, a fellow who had once been a noted field doctor accompanying the Honourable East India Company into Malaya, but now due to the harridan’s emasculation was little more than a shadow. Rumour had it that the Widow Worth had once convinced a young lady of her acquaintance that the girl was a great artist, and that overcome with fumes from the pigments she used as well as feminine weakness, the girl became certain she was being haunted by some ghastly spectre. To bring a swift end to a tragic tale, the poor maiden is now confined in Bedlam, yet another victim of the Widow’s insatiable need to meddle.

Even she could not countenance an unpleasant thought towards Margaret and myself, sitting oh so proper, with Margaret’s lady’s maid acting as chaperon. Of course, Margaret, being true to her nature, treated the poor girl abominably, constantly sending her off to perform petty errands. "Sarah, go forth and do this thing for me." "Sarah, go forth and do that thing for me." "Sarah, go forth and do that other thing for me." It grew quite tiresome, and I was nearing the point of instructing Margaret to allow the poor girl a rest, when the vicar rose to cry the banns.

"Oh Dennis," whispered Margaret, "This is so exciting!"

"Marriage," began Dr. Staneglass. "Marriage is what brings us together, today. Marriage, that blessed arrangement, that dream within a dream. And love, true love--"

Whatever the vicar wished to impart on us regarding love was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream from outside the church. Such a horrifying shriek, as to stop the heart! Several ladies in the church screamed as well, while the better-bred of their number swooned.

Almost as one, the gentlemen leapt to their feet and moved outside. I too accompanied them, for the scream had obviously come from a woman in peril, and as a gentleman it was my duty to attend to her. I rushed down the church steps, only to find a large crowd gathered around none other than Margaret’s lady’s maid, Sarah. The girl appeared unharmed, but by the trembling in her hands and the ghastly expression on her face, it was clear she had taken a tremendous shock.

"Sarah, what is the matter?" I asked in my most kindly voice. I felt ashamed I had allowed Margaret’s torment of young Sarah to carry on for so long, and hoped that by treating her kindly now in a moment of crisis her spirits might be buoyed. Unfortunately, my hopes were dashed as Margaret imperiously swept through the crowd and hauled Sarah to her feet.

"What on earth are you sniveling about, you foolish cow?" demanded Margaret.

"Softly, Margaret," I said. I turned to Sarah and asked her, "Go ahead, dear. What happened?"

"Horrible...so horrible," the maid whispered.

"What was?" I asked. "Do not be alarmed, you are safe among friends now."

"A...a man," she managed to stammer out. "A man with a sword! He raved...oh how he raved...a madman!"

This brought a startled gasp from the assembled crowd. The vicar, who had only just arrived, asked, "And what did the madman say?"

Sarah’s eyes darted to-and-fro; it was clear she was still befuddled and frightened. "He...said something...something about revenge. He said...he said your name, your Grace!" she said, suddenly raising her arm and pointing at--me!

"He was all dirty...his hair matted," she continued, almost to herself. "His eyes...like tigers' eyes, so angry!"

A murmur went up through the crowd, as the frightened churchgoers marveled at the possibility of a deranged lunatic in their midst.

"This all sounds like nonsense to me," declared Margaret.

"Why, Margaret," I said, my voice astonished. "It is patently obvious the girl has had a bad shock. Do not dismiss her so carelessly!" To Sarah I said, "What happened to him, this madman?"

"I screamed, and he ran off! That way!" she cried, and pointed; at once, a large contingent of the assembled gentlemen began to make haste in pursuit of the miscreant. I doubted they would catch him. He had already time enough to escape. I was nevertheless troubled, for the madman had named me, and called for some unspecified revenge. I had many enemies, but none who could be charitably called madmen.

Whatever joy I had found in the ill-timed union of Margaret and myself was dashed, and as I returned to the Professor’s house I found the town to be grim and shadowy, with phantom assailants behind every corner, and a hostile and deadly air seemed to permeate what once was kind and friendly.

My enemies were on the prowl. I would need to be on guard.

The Engagement

2008-08-11T12:25:00.000-07:00

Lady Margaret’s tears were atrocious to behold. "But Dennis," she cried. "Why must you go?" The delicate handkerchief she wrung in her hands seemed inadequate for the task of stanching the flow of effluvium from her nostrils as she wept and wailed.

I sighed and looked at the carpet. At the time, less than an hour prior, it had seemed like the best idea in the world to inform Margaret that I would be leaving for London. The right thing, the romantic thing. A gentleman should not and would not leave his beloved with nary a word, now would he? And as I was playing the besotted suitor, it made a great deal of sense that I should behave in every appropriate manner.

Unfortunately, the news of my departure had been met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments. I had not realized that I was held in such high esteem. Truth be told, she probably did not have any other prospects.

"Margaret, my dear, I told you. An opportunity of great import has arisen. My fortune is at stake." I tried to keep my voice even and free from frustration.

The Dowager Duchess sniffed and raised her teacup to her lips. "Well," she said. Nothing else. Just "Well."

This could not stand. "Madame le Duchesse, I assure you that I am on a mission of greatest probity. A gentleman of my acquaintance, a man of great sagacity and drive, has informed me of an opportunity to make my fortune in the City. So you see, I must go."

"Business?" said the Duchess. "That hardly seems gentlemanly. As though you were a clerk or a grocer rather than a viscount and heir to one of the great estates of England!"

"From what I understand, I shall act primarily in an advisory capacity, providing the sound moral and legal advice that the lower orders so frequently lack. So I understand." I understood no such thing, but she did not need to know that.

The Duchess seemed slightly mollified by this. "It’s good that you do that, Dennis. The artisan classes are such children. Still! I hope, for your sake, that this gentleman is engaged in no questionable activities, such as assassination, or opium, or journalism."

"I am certain he is not, Your Grace," I reassured her.

Margaret, apparently somewhat put-out by the lack of attention, commenced a fresh bout of bawling. "Oh, oh! Whatever shall I do, once you are gone? How shall I live? O Beloved Dennis!" Her weeping proceeded in earnest.

"You truly are doing her a disservice," scolded the Duchess over the howls. "She has grown so attached to you, young Dennis."

Increasingly I began to feel smothered. The vermilion interior of the tearoom began to seem less like the fillip of a softly feminine quarry and more like the blood-stained oubliette of some medieval torturer. By God, I longed to cast the teapot through one of the French windows and dive to safety from this she-goat and her horse-faced offspring! London, O London! Future site of my enrichment!

Still, I stifled this urge and painted my face with a sympathetic smile. "Be at ease, Margaret dearest. It shan’t be for long." This was greeted with pronounced sobs.

"A few weeks at most!" The sobs became bean-shidh-like wails, and my smile became increasingly strained.

"Your lordship is most unkind!" declared the Duchess, masticating a biscuit furiously.

"I assure you, my intentions are solely honorable!" I declared, only to have the stricken Margaret leap from her couch, and flinging her arms about me, she began sobbing loudly--and wetly--into my shoulder.

"Oh Dennis, oh Dennis!" she sobbed.

"A most cruel thing, most cruel," glowered the Duchess, shaking her head in disapproval.

I must admit, I can take many things, but only so much in the way of wailing women. In desperation, I managed to extricate myself from Margaret’s grip, and took her hands in my own. "Beloved Margaret, I wish to assure you that my attentions are honorable, and I wish to leave with you some sign of my intent--"

"Dennis!" she gasped, the tears vanishing in a twinkling. "Do you mean it?"

Being more than a little put off my balance by the recent show of female emotion, and somewhat baffled by her remark, I could only reply, "Yes, of course my dear."

"Oh Dennis!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining. "Oh Mother, did you hear?"

"Indeed I did," the Duchess said, giving me a reproving look. "Although he is not the sort I had imagined for you, his courage and forthrightness do him credit, Margaret."

"We shall be wed in the spring," Margaret said in a tone of happy conspiracy.

Words cannot describe the feeling of creeping horror that came over me at this point.

By some ill-fortuned and fickle twist of fate, Margaret had apparently mistaken my desire to assure her of my continued interest in her as a proposal of marriage! Aghast, I racked my brain for a method to escape this most recent and nauseating predicament, but found nothing. There was nothing for it but to play along.

"But Margaret," I said weakly, "I must confess I have no ring for you."

"Ring or no ring, I am truly the happiest maid that ever lived," she cried and embraced me.

The Duchess shot me a formidable glare. "Well, then, kiss her, you young fool."

As a Girondist might look forward to le Guillotine, so I moved forward into the kiss. A pair of colder vessels of passion as Lady Margaret’s lips I have never found. As quickly as possible I broke the embrace. "Margaret," I said sternly. "For all that I care for you, I must still away to London. I had not intended to make my suit so definite until my return, for fear you think me forward--"

"You are forgiven! Forgiven an hundred times. Two hundred!"

"Still, as happy as I am that our union is assured--" I had to suppress a shudder at this point "--my fortune awaits in London. Do not fear, I shall not be remiss in writing you."

These assurances made, and with many exhortations of love from Margaret, I managed to make my way to the door, and made my escape. On the walk home, I cursed myself for a fool, as I seemed to be doing more and more frequently since arriving in Stokington. Still, what’s done cannot be undone, and I was due in London. An opportunity missed once will present itself again, whereas a too hasty action can never be recalled. I was learning that the hard way.

Damn, damn, double damn. Marriage. Damn.

The Letter

2008-08-11T04:12:00.000-07:00

My situation at Stokington had much improved—I had gained one hundred and fifty pounds, a domicile in which to lay my head, the favor of Lady Margaret, and any number of worthy enemies—-but at the price of being inextricably knotted by obligations and duties. Nightly I racked my brain for some solution to the problem of a fortune, and where to acquire one. I tormented myself with schemes and schemas for freeing Mademoiselle Margot from her engagement. My mind was aflood with shenanigans to which Joseph and I might get up. And above all else, there was the omnipresence of Margaret.

I had been avoiding her for some days. Her voice is not like the lark’s but rather similar to the shrill cry of the starling, and while I eagerly anticipated joining her in the equanimitous and happy economic bonds of matrimony, I fled with some haste from the horrifying prospect of actually conversing with her. In my recent funk, my various plans stagnant, I honestly did not think I could play her false. O woe to the rapscallion brought low by merciless Saturn, whose merry despair drives out all glad tidings and brings only the renewed prospect of drink, debt, and untimely death!

The morning after my conversation with Mademoiselle Margot, the rains that had so plagued us with their inconstancy the previous week at last reached a consensus of action and moved into Stokington for good. A continuous downpour was what greeted me for the next several days whenever I should happen to glance out my window. This inclement weather restricted my activities such that I was nearly driven to the point of madness! There could be no riding, not even in the lanes, which had transformed themselves into a morass of mud, and most decidedly no hunting. The Honorable Joseph MacDonald and pere had evicted themselves from Little Stoke to Dawlish, where they at least could while away the hours at fish and at cards. This left me with no confederates.

Mademoiselle Margot and Miss Powers had contrived to make themselves scarce, spending several days at the house of a young friend. I was thus left in the company of Professor Papagoras and Miss Thompson, which is meek meat indeed to a man such as myself. The Professor and I spent many an hour playing a new card game which had been introduced to us by a friend, called by the amusing name of “rummie.” This new pastime was most engaging—for a day or two. Then we tired of it. Each of us retreated then to our private chambers—he to his study, I to the library—where we amused ourselves in our own fashion. I read any number of the Professor’s Malaspina and La Pérouse, as well as The Mysteries of Udolpho, a rather trifling work suitable perhaps for impressionably idiotic young women.

Miss Thompson, coincidentally, was everything I had hoped Mademoiselle Margot would not be. After three days in her company, I wrote to le Mademoiselle in words that would have shocked my chums at Eton and Oxford for their near proximity to begging, beseeching her to return to the Professor’s home and give me a duelist of words such that my rapier wit should not be dulled on the granite that comprised Miss Thompson’s skull. Her reply was brief and cold. She informed me in no uncertain terms that she was much engaged with the on-goings of a very charming young man whom she declined to name save that he was studying for the clergy and was a man of--and these are her words--"great virtue".

Women.

Some backcountry parson proclaims a sermon calling for temperance, love, and mercy, and he cannot beat the young ladies away even with a very large stick. Few women exhibit greater diversity, or, if we may so express it, greater antithesis of character than the native gentlewoman of England. In maidenhood, she is just, generous, hospitable, revengeful, superstitious, modest, and commonly chaste; in marriage, daring, boastful, cunning, ruthless, self-denying, and self-devoted. Still, life without them would be a vale of tears.

After several days of ever-increasing boredom, I had at last resolved that there was no resolution. I lay in my bed, dismal with the thought that all my schemes were for naught. This depressing thought stayed with me all through that long, dark night of the soul. I tossed and turned and slept very poorly indeed.

It so happened that the very next day, when my thoughts were at their lowest, that a letter arrived for me. Miss Thompson brought it to me as the Professor and I luncheoned on good braised beef. The envelope was plain vellum, but it seemed to be stained in certain random places by droplets of some strange rust colored liquid. I slit it open and removed the missive inside, which transpired to be most intriguing. I reproduce it below, to the best of my memory.

To His Excellency Dennis St. Michel, the Viscount Stokington,

Dear Sir, I apologise most heartily that our recent engagement should have come to such an unpropitious end, and hope that the Injuries you endured for the sake of the Partnership are by this time well-mended. Having said this, I have in recent times journeyed to the City of London where I have discovered a business Venture that, in light of your regrettable financial difficulties of which I had heard much in Stokington, you might possess some interest. If you have a desire to make quite a few sovereigns, and are amenable to a continued business interest with my person, I suggest you make haste to the City and meet me in a most elegant Salon in Spitalfields administered by two most worthy Negroes. These two men are in manner trite and given to platitudes, but in all other respects are highly couth, and if you inform the shorter of the two that you seek my company, he shall fetch me at once. May your Excellency continue in good health, and I remain your obedient servant.

C. Walker, Eqsuire

Most mysterious! Still, Mr. Walker struck me as a chancer, and by God, a fair chance is a fair wager, I say. Let us proceed to Londontown and see what is afoot there.

The Apology

2008-08-10T08:21:00.000-07:00

My most humble apologies to all of my most faithful Readers, as for the past several months I have been somewhat...indisposed, due to the machinations of several of my creditors, and have not had access to paper, pen, ink, or indeed much of anything save straw, a pallet, and a pair of shackles. My current domicile is a charming island off the coast of France. Well, I say charming, and undoubtedly it would be, but the man in the chamber next to me, a priest of some sort I gather, has gone rather mad, and raves daily about some treasure hidden on a distant isle. At first I was intrigued, but it tires one very quickly. Still, with luck I shall be at liberty to complete my memoirs, and I hope the next entry shall be made available to You very soon.

The Yule

2007-12-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

May I wish most heartily a happy Christmas to all my loyal Readers, and may this festive season find you in the bosom of your families, a glass of egg-and-grog in your hand as you warm yourself before the hearth. I myself shall be attending the Boar's Head Feast, a most merry occasion.

Celebrate long and well, and may St. Nicholas visit the young lads and lasses with great armfuls of presents. Happy Christmas!

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
For Jesus Christ our Saviour
Was born upon this day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray

O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy."

The Arrangement

2007-12-08T22:11:00.000-08:00

Dinner at the Professor’s was a most droll affair. Miss Louisa Anne made any number of foolish and idiotic remarks, and I took great delight in mercilessly and subtly mocking her. Now, many of you may decry me as being ungentlemanly, but for what other purpose are the stupid placed on earth, save to amuse the rest of us?

Besides, it was not as if she even noticed.

I, on the other hand, noticed that Mademoiselle Magee seemed rather down-at-heart, and did not take part in skewering Miss Louisa Anne. This supreme change in her demeanour gave me pause, causing me to wonder if perhaps the acid-tongued conversational duelist I had encountered previously was an aberration. I possess such a lack of adequate rivals that the loss of even a single one produced in me a gastric distress.

After dinner had concluded, I planned to retire to the library, where the Professor had informed me he had a first edition of Lawson’s A New Voyage to Carolina, which I had looked forward to reading. Stopping first at the sideboard and preparing myself a glass of port, I then made haste to the Professor’s fine book cellar.

Now I have earlier vouchsafed my dislike of my father’s library, but the corresponding room in the Professor’s townhouse could not be more different. It is light and airy, with several large windows, and much open space. The books are kept up properly, and remain obediently on the shelves. In short, it is a room where man demonstrates his prowess over the written word rather than vice versa.

Having prepared myself for what was for me an unusual occurrence--a quiet evening in--I was therefore somewhat startled to discover the library had already been claimed by the woman in black, Mademoiselle Magee.

As I entered, she looked up with a short jerk of her head. “Oh. ‘Tis you, the Professor’s errand boy,” she said, but her words lacked her usual malicious glee, and I sensed only irritation.

I prefer my opponents to be fighting fit rather than weakened by some distress, so I made a bow and said, “My apologies, Mademoiselle, I did not realise the room was occupied. I shall retire elsewhere.” In part I said this because I did not wish to seem churlish, but also because Mademoiselle Magee is rather…sharp and jagged, like a hedgehog, and that made her a rather challenging conquest indeed. I take second to no man in my admiration of the female portion of the species. Let the other men play their games of politics; give me a fine young kirtle and an afternoon free of distraction and I shall be a happy man. Ambition is but the toy which amuses our lighter hours--women are the serious business of life.

Beginning a decorous exit, I placed my hand on the knob when Mademoiselle Magee spoke.

“No. Hold a moment,” she said, in a musing voice.

“You require something, Mademoiselle?” I asked, turning. I hoped this would not take long, as my glass of port was getting rather lonely.

“Yes, there is a matter…but you could not possibly help,” she said with a dismissive snort.

“How can you know if you do not ask?” I said reasonably.

She eyed me sceptically. “Very well. Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a divan, “and drink your port, you foolish boy, you so obviously want to.”

“Very well, I shall,” I said, and drank deeply. “Now what is this matter?”

“First I must ask for your word that you will speak of this to no one,” she said in a mocking tone of voice. “Of course, you could not give your word, and even if you did it would mean nothing.”

“My word means nothing? All words mean something.”

“You are a rascal and a rakehell, a knave and a true villain, so of course if I ask for your word, you shall lie and in your most honeyed voice promise me you shall take whatever I tell you to the grave.”

“Oh, not to the grave, no.”

“You intend to divulge my secrets long before then?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh, no, I intend not to die.”

“You intend not to die?” she asked in disbelief.

“Indeed. I doubt God will have me, and the Devil seems the sort to trade a good pound for a bad ring, so I imagine it shan’t be too difficult to escape eternal hellfire, and then I shall be back to my highjinks and fun again,” I said casually.

Mademoiselle Magee surprised me: she laughed at this. “I find myself liking you in spite of me,” she said.

“It is my talent,” I said solemnly. “Promise me you shall take my secret to the grave?”

“No, no,” she said, still laughing. “If you shall not die, neither shall I. I shall live on, unchanging, until…until…until the twenty-first century and beyond!”

“As long as that? Why, the French will have conquered the world by then, and who would wish to live in a world where only French is spoken?”

“The French,” she said, and her laughing ceased, and she looked saddened. “’Twere not for the French, I should not be here.”

“Oh?” I said.

“My father fought at Minorca against the French, during the War of Seven Years. When Byng’s line failed, the garrison there fell back to Gibraltar. My mother--her name is Gabriella--was the girl who brought the water. It caused quite the scandal, when my father brought her back to Ireland with him.”

“I see,” I said, and took another drink of port.

“They married for love, you see.”

“While you intend to marry for money? Or land?”

“I do not intend to marry at all, and that is the problem!”

I raised my eyebrows at this. “Problem?”

She looked at me for a moment, and then said very seriously, “Do you solemnly swear to take this to the grave?”

I looked at her, and said equally seriously, “I shall do no such damn foolish thing.”

She gave me an appraising look, and then set her jaw. “Good. I should have thrown a book at you else you said otherwise.”

“Go on then.”

She rubbed her chin for a long moment, and then said, “When I was but a slip of a girl of sixteen, I made a dreadful mistake. A boy--a handsome, kind, wealthy boring boy--asked me to marry him, and I like a dolt said yes. He and I have been secretly engaged these last --well, why should I tell you how old I am?!” she said, giving me a disparaging look. “At any rate,” she continued, “When the Professor came to take me away from my flowers and make me a lady, the boy--Mills, is his name--had long since departed for other shores to seek his fortune, and I thought myself free of him. But now he has returned, and has recommenced whatever dull romantic intrigue he had planned before he left. He has asked me to marry him again, and he will not take no for an answer!”

I thought about this for a moment. “Have you considered faking your own death?” I asked. “It is surprisingly easy to do.”

She snorted. “I need a permanent solution, not some half-cocked scheme you run with a pair of roustabouts and a corpse taken from a fresh grave.”

“Why not simply call off the engagement?”

“I have my honour; I gave him my word,” Mademoiselle Magee said haughtily. Then she looked at me with something akin to inspiration. “But you on the other hand…”

“I, on the other hand?”

“…Are a scoundrel who has no honour. Think me a plan, Dennis, to escape this hateful matrimony, think me a plan.”

“And what shall you do for me?” I asked. “Not very much, while I can do many things for you--or to you,” I said, and leered at her.

“If you think such words shall put me off my feed, you coney-catching bastard, you do not know Margot Magee. The last thing I need is another suitor pressing his suit.”

“My suit is not the thing I wish to press. In fact, let us forget my suit--and you your gown, and get down to bare facts.”

She gave me a cool look. “If you assist me, I shall not give you a ‘no,’” she said finally.

“Then you shall give me a ‘yes’?”

“I did not say that, did I?”

“No you did not,” I said admiringly. “So it is to be a game then? To the victor go the…”

“The what?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I could not think of anything salacious that rhymes with ‘spoils.’”

“Keep it that way,” she said. “Find me a way out of this engagement and you shall have your game, your Lordship.”

And with that, she swept from the room.

Now all I had to do was discover a way to extricate Mademoiselle Magee from her engagement. Without faking her death.

Boils, toils, roils…no, still nothing.

The Lecture

2007-12-07T13:33:00.000-08:00

I returned to Professor Papagoras’ in a foul temper. Whatever joy I had taken in that day’s ride had been thoroughly snuffed out by the snake Mrs. Llwynog. A man may be dashed to pieces on an outcropping of rock, or break an arm on a tree, or be shot by one of his fellows by mistake, but you go on. That is part of life, and a part of the hunt. After all, the seasons do not fear the reaper, nor do the wind, the sun, and the rain. However, I cannot stand anyone but me getting away with things.

In addition, during the long walk home it began to rain. So it was a very sodden fellow who returned to the Professor’s townhouse that teatime. I quickly stripped off my damp riding gear and changed into something a bit drier.

I was just about to sneak into the study and see if the good Professor had any “medicinal” brandy, when the man himself appeared from the study.

“Ah, your Lordship!” he said enthusiastically. “Just the fellow I wished to see.”

“Really,” I said, somewhat distractedly.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Come in, come in,” he beckoned.

Reluctantly, I followed him into the study. A wide variety of objects and curios lined the walls, filling shelves and glass-fronted cases. I turned my head upon entering, and came face to face with a strange creature, all white, with no arms but two legs, and a pudgy, bulbous shape that reminded me of a pear, or the Mayor. The small mustache worn by the creature only completed the resemblance. It was stuffed, of course.

Many other surfaces were covered with pinned beetles, their glittering carapaces setting the room ablaze with chitinous fire.

The Professor led me over to a disarrayed workbench. I idly picked up an odd-looking brass device. “What is this, pray?” I asked.

“Oh that,” the Professor said dismissively. “Device I invented for getting sunbeams out of cucumbers. Old news, your Lordship.”

I set the strange device down as the Professor gestured triumphantly at a stack of papers. “Voila,” he cried.

“Yes?” I said politely. “And? What is it?”

“Why, it is only my life’s work,” he said, looking simultaneously aghast and affronted. “A manuscript that shall put the name of Aristotle Papagoras on the map!”

Oh. Wonderful. I shall endure a lecture on natural philosophy, I thought. “Congratulations.”

“I shall tell you about it; after all, a clever young man such as yourself must have an appetite for knowledge. Tell me, are you familiar with the works of Erasmus Darwin?”

No. “Very slightly, Professor.”

“In his Zoönomia, Darwin puts forth the most novel theory: that all creatures arose from some primal ‘filament,’ as he calls it, and were not individually created by the Lord as Sedgwick would have it.”

“Well, that makes a variety of sense, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” said the Professor happily. “Clearly organisms change over the course of their lives, so why should not species?”

“And we see inheritance amongst ourselves. Everyone tells me I have my mother’s nose.”

“Precisely!”

“And when my father dies, I shall get all his money.”

“Preci--no, that is…there is perhaps a limit to how practical a metaphor is…”

I turned my attention to the stack of papers. “And I presume you have written a monograph on the subject?”

“Not merely a monograph, but the definitive work, my boy,” he said excitedly. “Why, I have found evidence of transmutation itself, on the far side of the globe.”

“Really?!” I said, interested. I care very little about natural philosophy, but I have always enjoyed tales of the exotic and of faraway destinations.

“Yes, yes, on the Galápagos Islands. Do you know them?”

“Unfortunately, I do not.”

“Some miles off the coast of Peru, in the Pacific Ocean,” he said as he struggled to open a large atlas. Once he found the correct page, he pointed to a tiny archipelago. “I ventured there some years ago, as a young man, and you’ll never guess what I found!”

“What?” I asked, and was a little alarmed to realise I was amused by the Professor’s obvious enthusiasm.

“Finches!” he shouted triumphantly.

“Finches.”

“Yes, they are a variety of bird.”

“I know what a finch is, Professor.”

“Very good, very good,” he said. “Now, these finches had any number of different types of beak, each one well suited to eating the differing fruits found on the islands.”

“That makes sense; a heron eats frogs, and a wren eats insects, and their beaks are very different.”

“Exactly!” crowed the Professor. “As the finches ate different fruits, their beaks changed to suit their food. But that is not all.”

“No?”

“No indeed, my boy. For on these islands are great tortoises, as well as iguanas that live in the ocean.”

“Tortoises and iguanas. Fascinating,” I said.

“And do you know what they have in common?”

“I must confess I do not.”

The Professor grinned at me through his snowy white beard. “It was the same with me, it took me forever to see it, but the answer is…BEAKS!” he shouted.

“I see…” I did not see at all, but when a man grins at you like that, you choose your words carefully, to avoid pushing him from “modestly eccentric” to “dangerously insane.”

“Both the tortoises and the iguanas have beaks, just like the finches.”

“Ah.”

“Therefore, what my manuscript proposes is the obvious truth: the finches must have arrived first on the islands, and transmuted themselves into the tortoises and iguanas.”

“Transmuted…into tortoises?”

“All perfectly logical, my dear boy.” Seeing my apparent confusion, he patted me on the arm. “You are obviously unacquainted with the subtler arguments of science.”

“Well, with men of such vigor and intellect as yourself in command, I dare say science is in good hands,” I said, while trying to find a convenient exit.

Fortunately for me, at that very moment, Miss Thomasina entered the room. Pausing to curtsy, she said to me, “Your lordship, a young man came by moments ago with this for you.” She handed me a small envelope.

“Pardon me, Professor,” I said, and he made genial away-with-you motions as I exited the study, relieved at the timely arrival of this missive.

Curious, I opened the envelope and discovered a thin card of vellum inside. Extracting it, I was momentarily taken aback by the words writ upon it.

Her Grace Margaret, Duchess of Devon

Wishes to Inform The Reader That She Will Be

AT HOME

On the Night of June --, 1794.

The Reader’s Attendance is Requested

As I held the card in my hand, I was intrigued.

The game was afoot.

The Shrew

2007-12-06T12:15:00.000-08:00

The hunt was called short on account of the poor Major. We brought his body back to the house, and when we arrived there was a great outpouring of grief. Apparently, Major Tom had been thought of as the best of men, and much beloved, although I could not see why. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he struck me as being a bit...bland, and rather a gloomy fellow. Still, his death struck me harder than I would have expected. Now, no man can reach manhood without the loss of a friend or two, but this was the first time I had personally been in the presence of death.

Feeling somewhat muddled, I stood to one side in the drive as the body was carried into the house. As the deceased passed by, I saw that Mrs. Llwynog also standing by. Now, she had given every semblance of grief during our short journey to the house, weeping and carrying on so such that I had thought it would be a blessing for all of us, including her, were she to fall into a swoon, and cease her wailing. At the house with no one watching her, however, she was dry-eyed and calm. One might have speculated that the hunt had been ended on account of rain, not the death of one of the huntsman, from her countenance. Miserable woman.

She had led him into it, damn her, the least she could have done was shown some remorse. But her gaze was as cold and as pitiless as a glacier. Cruelty, thy name is woman.

However, I cannot lay all the blame at the feet of Mrs. Llwynog. Major Caine surely deserved a large portion of it. But I myself shall never allow myself to be led around by the nose by some woman. Goaded into a fateful plunge into rough ground because he felt himself less of a man than a chancer whom he barely knew? The fool.

And Mrs. Llwynog, with her guileful ways, was judge, jury, and executionatrix of the hapless Major. Leading a man on like that, when her only eye was on his pocketbook, and showing not the slightest sign of guilt or remorse afterward.

Now, I know many a man prefers his woman to be meek and mild like so much of Richardson’s work, but I myself prefer a girl with a bit of spirit. I’ve read my Vindications. I cannot for the life of me see the appeal of milksops like Pamela, Clarissa, or young Werther’s Lotte. A girl like that is only good for one thing, and that only takes perhaps forty-five minutes, and you cannot do it all day, so how would a man fill the remainder of his time, saddled with such a pale and pious wife?

No, give me a lass with fire in her belly and a lust for life, and I shall be set for life. A girl should have a generous helping of dash, if she is to win this scoundrel’s heart.

But this Mrs. Llwynog was a harpy of another sort entirely. Major Tom may have stuck his head in the noose, but she held it open for him, and if there was any justice in the world, the constable should have her down to London, and let her dance for the crowds. A murderess is still a murderess, whether she does it with poison, a blade in the night, or with humble words.

Cold and cruel, that one. And what is worse, she shall pay no price for her crime. I watched her as she was led away by some kind “gentleman”, almost instantly comporting herself as a stricken damsel, with her handkerchief to her face and tears streaming down her cheeks.

I could have slapped her.

That fox knows many tricks, but not one good one.

The Hunt

2007-12-05T20:35:00.000-08:00

“You look like hell.” Professor Papagoras tutted over me as he held the door open. I had taken the trouble to put on my shirt and shoes during the walk back across the moors, but still held my coat and waistcoat tucked under my arm. “What have you been up to, eh?” the Professor asked, chuckling.

“My doctor prescribed a brisk run in the country,” I said austerely. The warmth of the entryway to the townhouse was a pleasant change from the chilly morning air, and I resolved to get some food in me as quickly as possible.

“Oh,” said the Professor, “a young fellow stopped by for you, not half an hour ago. He said to tell you the running of the hounds would be at nine on the dot.”

“Nine?!” I cried, and hurriedly looked at the clock. “Why, ‘tis already half past eight!”

I rushed up the stairs, and with all due haste dressed in riding clothes and made a desperate attempt to look presentable. This would never do, I looked a sight, but needs must, and so I dashed from the Professor’s in the hopes of catching Joseph before he left Stokington Court.

It seems I am forever running from place to place, but I would not pass up a chance to run the fox for all the world.

At last I arrived at Joseph’s, and not a moment too soon, for he was pacing in front of the manse with a pair of fine stallions tied and ready to ride.

“Where the devil have you been?” he cried on catching sight of me. “We shall be late!”

“To the deuce with being late, get me on a horse, man!” I said, and swung myself into the saddle of a fine looking roan. The horse sidestepped, and Joseph leapt forward to untie the reins. Both mounted now, we spurred the horses into a gallop and made haste to the Duke of Marma’s.

Now this Duke kept a most exquisite estate, especially for being not only a foreigner but a Spaniard. We galloped up the main thoroughfare with mere minutes to spare, and found ourselves in the company of the rest of the hunt. Pulling the horses to a stop, we dismounted, and Joseph led me through the crowd of sportsmen. We soon came upon the Mayor of Great Stokington, a man of some years and stoutness.

“Milord Mayor, of course you remember Dennis, the Viscount of Stokington,” Joseph said by way of introduction. I bowed, and doffed my hat.

“Of course, of course,” the Mayor harrumphed. “Splendid, splendid. You arrived just in time, we were beginning to commence.”

“But where is the Duke of Marma?” I asked. “For I was most looking forward to making his acquaintance.”

“Under the weather, under the weather, the poor chap,” said the Mayor.

“Nothing serious, I hope,” I said.

“No, no, just too much of that Spanish food, if you ask me. Heathenish stuff. Uses chillys, whatever those are.”

“I do believe you mean ‘chiles,’ Mayor,” I said.

The Mayor stared at me blankly, then turned to the assembled party. “Right then, since there are sixteen of us, we shall hunt in teams of four.”

I was handed a gun and shot, and met with my teammates. Joseph was on my team, of course, and also a doughty military fellow, and best of all, a fine looking woman all in scarlet. A scarlet woman, indeed!

“Ah, Dennis, allow me to introduce Major Anthony Caine and Mrs. Maureen Llwynog of Cardiff,” said the Mayor.

“A pleasure,” said Major Caine, and bowed. Mrs. Llwynog, to my surprise, shook hands.

“Is that how they do things in Wales?” I asked her with a smile.

“That is how they do them, your Honor,” she said coquettishly.

As we walked back to our horses, Joseph muttered, “For God’s sake, keep your eye on the fox.”

“Indeed I shall,” I said, watching the pert bounce of Mrs. Llwynog’s rump as she walked toward her own horse.

“You know what I mean,” said Joseph irritably. We mounted, and the hunt began. We were set with a rather wily-looking auld master of the hounds, and his pack of fine curs, and he began to lead us on a goodly chase.

We saw neither hide nor hair of Reynard during the first two hours, until the Master of Hounds called a brief halt. In the distance we could hear the halloo of the other hunters and the call of their horns.

“Sounds like they’re having a merry run, Major Caine,” I said to the tall, sad-looking soldier.

“Please, call me Tom. Everyone does. Everyone save me wife, that is,” he said.

“Very well, Major Tom,” I said. “And from where in England do you hail?”

“Upper Canada, actually.”

“Ah! The New World, how damnably clever.”

“Yes, I serve under Lieutenant-Governor Semcoe. My wife is there now.”

“Does this wife of yours have a name, or must I be forced to refer to her as Major Tom’s Wife in conversation?” I asked, jokingly.

“The Lizard, least that’s what I call her. Frightful woman. Just like her mother.”

“Ah well,” I said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“That Mrs. Llwynog, there’s a woman I wouldna mind getting closer to,” he said, grinning lasciviously, which did not quite work on his mustachioed face.

“But did you notice she’s Mrs. Llwynog?” I asked, and cocked an eyebrow.

“No hazard, lad; I hear her husband caught a musketball in Holland. Look at that bosom,” he sighed. “She’s ready for a right tupping, that one.”

As if overhearing our conversation, even though she was some distance away, the lovely, and indeed as Major Tom put it, quite bosomy Mrs. Llwynog turned in our direction. I tipped my hat, and a wink, towards her. Seeing this, she smiled in return.

“Oh, she likes you,” Major Tom said bitterly. “Never fails. I see a lassie I like, and some other man-jack steals her away.”

“What kind of a military man are you, Caine?” I asked, and snorted. “Give up at the first sign of opposition much? Thank God you’re in Canada and not in Belgium. Besides, you must have some charm. You caught that Lizardy wife of yours, didn’t you?”

“Aye, and much good it’s done me,” he said gloomily, but before he could say more, a great baying went up among the hounds.

“They’ve caught the scent, sirs!” cried the Master, and the dogs bolted into the woods in pursuit of their quarry. The five of us followed swiftly.

Now, I am no mean horseman, so it was no surprise to me that I soon took the lead in front of my fellows, but I was quite agape when I saw that riding beside me and keeping pace was none other than Mrs. Llwynog. She flashed a toothy grin at me and spurred her mare forward.

“Oh no, Madame,” I cried, “The fox is mine.”

“We shall see, your Honor,” she called back.

Soon we came upon the dogs clustered in a tight knot, around a hedgerow at the bottom of the hill. “T’scent’s confused, lordships,” panted the Master of Hounds as he returned to us after investigating.

“By God, I hope the fox has not gone beyond that stile,” said Joseph, pointing. “’Tis all fen in there.”

Silently I agreed. A horse could be crippled or even killed on ground like that. “If the fox is indeed in the marsh, I recommend we leave off and wait for him to emerge,” I said.

Mrs. Llwynog looked at me with disdain. “Where’s your sense of adventure, lads? I dare say I shan’t look at a man who won’t risk a horse or a thousand pounds for a good thrill.”

“Madame,” I said sternly. “I am many things, and a chancer is one of them, but I will not kill a good horse for ten pounds of foxflesh.”

“Fine,” she sniffed. “You looked to be the poorer, commoner sort of aristocrat anyway.”

The Major stirred in his saddle, and looked uncomfortable, but whatever words he would have spoken died on his lips when the Master of Hounds cried, “There he goes!” and sure enough, the dogs swarmed through a gap in the row after a scarlet blur.

Major Tom looked at me, then at Mrs. Llwynog, then at me again. Apparently, he made up his mind, for defiantly he said to me, “’Kill a horse’? Cowardice.”

He spurred his horse forward down the hill.

“Hold Tom,” I cried. “Don’t do it, man! The ground’s too rough!”

“I shall do as I like, and no one shall tell me otherwise!” he called back without looking.

“A brave man,” cried Mrs. Llwynog, gaily. “Tally-ho, Major, tally-ho!”

“A damned fool, is what he is,” I said angrily, and turned on her, “the same as you.”

I spurred my own horse to a gallop after him. For all my skill I could not beat him to the hedgerow, and by the time I and the roan jumped it, he had vanished into the misty fen. Now as I said, I am many things, but I am no fool, so I slowed the roan to a walk.

I could no longer see Mrs. Llwynog, Joseph, and the Master of Hounds on the hilltop. The bog was shrouded with mist, and seemingly from all around me came the distant baying of hounds. I felt a fool. I had not spoken quickly enough, and the devilish Mrs. Llwynog had spurred Major Anthony Caine to some mishap. But it was not the Welshwoman alone who drove him. Perhaps it was some need to be his own man, free of his wife and commander and king. And perhaps he thought it well to act on this need. But it is not given to man to know his own needs.

The roan and I walked for what seemed to be an eternity, but was probably only five minutes, in that marsh of mist and fog.

And at last we came on Major Tom.

His horse stood at some distance, with the natural respect that all animals have in times of danger. It did not seem hurt, which was a blessing. Tom, on the other hand, was in much worse shape.

I dismounted quickly, and carefully making my way through the treacherous mud, came over to him and knelt beside. His head lay at an odd and frightening angle.

“Tom,” I said softly. “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”

For a long moment he did not answer. Then at last, his lips parted, and he said, “I hear you.”

“What happened, Tom?”

“Lost the foxie in the fog. Dogs all gone. Horse came up on a hummock, stumbled.” His voice was weak, and confused. “Horse threw me.”

“Tom.”

A long silence. “Aye.”

“Tom, I think your neck is broken. Don’t move.” He shifted his arm, and I quickly grabbed it. “Don’t move.”

“Canada,” he said, and coughed violently. “I’m feeling very still.”

“Yes, Tom,” I said, my voice hoarse.

He seemed to think for a long moment. “And I think my horse knows which way to go.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said, biting back tears.

“Tell my wife I love her very much.” His voice was very faint.

“She knows,” I said.

He said nothing for a long while. And after a bit, I saw that his chest was not moving any more.

“Can you hear me, Major Tom?” I asked, the first time a bit desperately, but then I asked again twice more, and grew calmer every time. He was gone.

Eventually Joseph and the Master of the Hounds came down, and together we got him out of there. All that because some woman smiled at him. The bloody fool. The poor, bloody fool.

We never did catch the damned fox.

The Escape

2007-12-04T18:22:00.000-08:00

I awoke to birdsong, and the soft sighs of June as she slept next to me. The sun shone brightly through the window, and all was right with the world. Lust, whether newly born, or aroused from a deathlike slumber, must always create sunshine, filling the loin so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outward world.

I gently caressed June’s shoulder until she awoke. I was feeling rather frisky, and so we made merry upon the bed for a time.

“Oh, June,” I said, “You are a glorious woman.”

She smiled bashfully. “You have made me happy, Dennis.”

“And may I continue to do so,” I said, “although I fear your bed has ensnared me.”

“Oh pooh,” she giggled, and walloped me with a pillow. With a roar of false outrage, I held her down and tickled her until she begged me to stop, tears of merriment cascading down her cheeks.

“Oh! Oh oh!” she gasped. “Stop, Dennis, please stop, I beg you, I shall do anything you ask!”

“Anything?” I teased.

“Yes, anyth--what was that?” she said, suddenly alert.

“I heard nothing,” I whispered.

We listened intently. “There!” she whispered. “Do you hear it?”

I did. The most feared and hated sound of all: a tread on the floor below! A moment later, I realised there was a worse sound, for to our aghast ears came the muted murmur of male voices below us.

“My husband!” whispered June in terror.

“Well,” I said, “Last night was highly enjoyable, but I must away. Good day to you, madame,” and gathering up my clothes, I made for the stairs.

But O! What tragedy was this? I could hear the creak of nail on wood as a man’s shoe trod upon the lowest step!

Trapped, damn my eyes!

I hurried back to the bedroom. “Your husband comes to greet us and commend us on such a vigorous night of field tilling.”

“Oh God,” she moaned in terror.

“June!” came the cry up the stairs. “Does your lazy rump still lie abed?”

“Behind the door,” she whispered, gesturing frantically.

Seeing immediately what she was about, I quickly sprang behind the open door. The cold brute who dared to call himself my angel’s husband strode into the room not a moment after I had secreted myself. Frowning, he stood just inside the doorway, eyeing his wife carefully, and with extreme inconsideration blocked my escape.

“Why aren’t you up and about, wife?” he asked coldly. “Been teasing the kitty while I was away?”

I nearly reached out and assaulted the dastard for his vulgarity, but restrained myself. June, meanwhile, hurriedly arose from the bed, sheet wrapped about her, and threw her arms around her husband.

“I was…merely trying to surprise you,” she said, with only a very slight touch of desperation.

The Doctor recoiled slightly from her embrace, and said, “Surprised I am--at your indecency. You should cover yourself.”

You damned fool, I thought. If she had any decency, she would go uncovered all day long, looking as she does. Thinking this, I resolved to perform some mischief on the Doctor, perhaps leave some sign that he had been cuckolded. I dare say I doubt he would care if another man made toad in the hole with his wife from a purely natural standpoint, but I imagine his pride would be affronted.

The Doctor turned and called back down the stairs, “Nicholas! Fetch the bags up here, would you? And be quick about it!”

So he would shame his wife in front of a servant, would he? The arrogance of the man! Resolving to listen to my own devils, my hand snaked out while his head was turned and I gave June a firm pinch on her bare buttock. She yelped.

Morgan turned back, startled. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” said June quickly. “I trod upon a nail-head.”

“Oh,” he said dully. I imagine he would not care if she trod upon a bayonet.

“I shall dress, then? While you manage your bags?” she asked hopefully.

Morgan stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then said, “Yes. Yes, I imagine so.” He turned and began descending the stairs.

Thank God.

I hurriedly struggled into my breeches. “You must leave,” said June.

“Madame,” I replied, “Even the promise of more of your sweet kisses could not keep me.” She melted a little as I said this.

From outside I could hear Morgan bellowing at his hapless catamite, Nicholas. Feeling rather daring, I pulled June close to me and gave her a long kiss. Releasing her, I asked, “Is there another way out of here, besides the front door?”

“No, so hurry before--” but before I could descend the stairs and flee, I heard Morgan and Master Nicholas entering, grumbling and straining under the weight of their bags.

“Damn!” I whispered furiously. I placed my hands on her shoulders. “Think, June. Is there any other way out?”

She thought for a moment, then the light of remembrance dawned upon her face. “Yes! The window out Rexford’s study. ‘Tis not high, and there is a shrubbery directly below.”

“Thank you,” I said with feeling, and checking rapidly to ensure I had all my clothes, quickly crossed the hallway to the Doctor’s study.

“June!” Morgan bawled from below. “I am famished! Get down here and make me some breakfast post haste!”

With some urgency, I rammed up the paint-encrusted window. The resulting gap was just large enough for a rather fit young man to shimmy through. I eased my legs through the gateway to freedom. Twisting back towards June, I said, “Adieu, madame mon amour, jai passerai chaque nuit rêvant à votre yeuxl.”

She gave me a pleased, soulful look, and I slung myself out the window.

June was right, there was indeed a privet bush beneath the window. However, she neglected to mention that there was another window betwixt the bush and the study window, this one leading into the kitchen, and as I plummeted to earth I passed before the startled eyes of Doctor Morgan.

For a heartstopping moment, he was transfixed. Luckily I had been wearing my breeches, else he should have gotten a good look at my bare arse. As it was, I efficiently used the seconds he had given me through bafflement to extricate myself from the shrub. As I finished, I heard him bellow from inside the house. “June! Who the devil was that?!”

One of my mottoes is: Never look back. That way they won’t get a good look at your face.

I sprinted across the lawn towards the lane, my bare feet pelting through the sodden grass. Behind me I could hear Morgan charging like a bull out the front door of the cottage, hot in pursuit. Luckily, the lackwitted physician had taken too long to take to the chase, and I soon left him huffing for breath and hollering impotently. “I’ll catch you, you rascal, whoever you are!”

I chuckled to myself as I trotted down the lane. He didn’t even know who I was! I had stuck his wife, squeezed through the window, and outrun the furious husband, and I still left behind no clue as to my identity!

One of my better exits, I must say.

The Wife

2007-12-03T18:44:00.000-08:00

Dusk fell on the moors. Dusk like thunder, like a cloak broad and black, turning the heath to shadowy gravemould. Along the horizon tors sprang like giants against the ruddy sunset. I walked along the lane towards Glenwood Cottage. In general, I avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted, but my liaison with Madame Morgan could not be delayed.

The earth had long since descended into inky darkness when I arrived at Glenwood Cottage, the solitary window a gleaming beacon of hope in infinite blackness. The house itself was modest; a cozy fit for a family of five but more than ample enough for a doctor, his wife, and his assistant.

Before knocking, I made sure that the Doctor himself was not at home. A quick check of the stables revealed the absence of two horses. These the Doctor and his apprentice must have taken to Londontown. Thus reassured, I made my way back to the cottage. The rustic brick was cool to my touch as I guided myself by feel through the darkness to the front door.

I straightened my coat and waistcoat, then rapped upon the door. Inside, there was a brief noise, then silence. After a long moment, the door opened a crack.

A woman’s quavering voice said, “If you be a highwayman, I warn you I am armed.”

“Madame,” I said, “I am just a poor traveler momentarily lost upon the moors. Perhaps you could allow me inside to warm myself by your hearth?”

A brightly twinkling eye appeared at the crack, and I leaned into the light from the window, allowing her to see my visage. Madame Morgan opened the door with great haste, saying, “Your Lordship! You gave me quite a fright!”

“My apologies, Madame. I meant no harm. But I truly would like to come in, as it is becoming rather chilly.”

“Of course,” she said, and favored me with a broad smile. “Where are my manners?” She ushered me inside.

The interior of the cottage looked as though an ossuary had exploded. Bones of all kinds lined the walls, as did more arcane objects, which I could only guess to be the tools of the sawbones’ trade. On closer inspection, many of the bones were not human, a fact I greeted with some relief. I spotted the skulls of a horse, a cow, and other, unidentifiable creatures on bureaus, tables, even chairs. The Doctor’s experimentation had taken him far afield in search of bones.

June Morgan, having left me in the maw of this ghastly ribcage momentarily, returned with a tea tray. “Perhaps you would care for some tea?” she asked me.

“Of course,” I said, and in the light of the cottage I allowed myself to get a better look at my quarry. By God she was a fine looking woman. Proud features set into a face of alabaster, with raven-black hair artfully coiffed so that the delicate tips brushed her blushing cheeks. Having caught her unawares, I now saw she was in a state of mild dishabille, her bodice loosened slightly, and as I sipped my tea I could see the tops of her delightful breasts bobbing with every breath.

I glanced around the room. “Fascinating,” I commented. “It must be stimulating, living with a man so concerned with the natural philosophy.”

“Oh yes, my husband is a man of…science,” she said, and I detected a note of bitterness in her voice.

“I personally see myself as a man of history,” I said.

“How so?” she inquired. Did my eyes deceive me, or did she lean towards me as she asked the question?

“Science is so cold and clinical,” I said, and stood. “Only by understanding one’s place in history, and acting to change it, does one have the potential for the heroic.”

“’The heroic’,” she said, and this time there was teasing in her voice. “Words most often heard from limp-wristed dandies in lace and silk before they declaim their latest sonnet.” But she smiled when she said it.

“Oh, there is room for poesy in the heroic, and room for heroism in the poetic. What of Lancelot and Guinevere? Of Tristan and Isolde?”

“Romeo and Juliet?” she suggested, and winked at me.

“Truly their epic loves were not undercut by the heroism of their lives but enhanced. To live and to love--heroically,” I said, and sat down close to her. “One is not possible without the other.”

I took her hand in mine, raised it up between us. “A left hand. A right hand. Perfect matches, yet opposites. The heroic and the poetic, the epic and the romantic, together in one climactic impulse, that life impulse, impossible to deny, impossible to dissuade, rising inside you until--can you feel it, June?”

“I feel it, Dennis,” she gasped, her hand trembling in mine.

“The urge, June, the urge! To live without regrets, in the moment, from peak--to peak--to peak,” I said, squeezing her hand. Her face was very close to mine now. “Heroism, June, is knowing what must be done, and doing it, doing it as hard as you can. No matter how hard life pounds at you, you must not submit, but pound back, and when at the end you are bruised and exhausted, you will bask in the glory of your triumph. That is heroism, June,” I whispered.

“Oh Dennis!” she whispered, “you speak with such passion, such intensity, a woman might--”

“A woman might what?” I whispered.

“Oh!” she said suddenly. “I must apologise, Dennis, I forgot to give you the tour of our fine cottage.” She stood and grasping my hand, dragged me up from the sopha and into the kitchen. “The kitchen,” she announced hurriedly, and pulled me upstairs. “Rexford’s study,” she said.

We quickly went down the hallway, and she opened a door. “And our bedroom,” she said, and gestured to the bed. “Notice how fine our quilt is, I made it my--”

I pushed her up against the wall and kissed her, hard and hot and how she wanted it. Her lips were soft and moist beneath mine, and I felt my tongue brush against hers.

“Oh Dennis, yes,” she gasped as our lips parted.

“No more talking,” I said mock-sternly, “the time for talking is over. Now is the time for doing,” and I swept her into another long kiss. I kissed her neck, brushing her silky skin with my lips, tasting the sweat on her, as I untied her corset. When the last stay came loose, I stood back.

Her dress fell away in one glorious motion, revealing an exquisite body, untouched by the ravages of time or decay. A pair of beauteous breasts, high and full with skin the color of pale ivory and tipped with delicate pink nipples, were only the most prominent of her advantages. The curving hips, the honeyed thighs, the delectable navel set like a pearl in the center of a smooth flat stomach—the result of her arrayed features was one of staggering beauty and incipient tumescence.

I pulled her close to me, and kissed her again. While doing so I caressed her dainty buttocks, feeling the velvety, supple flesh beneath my hands. As we kissed, I spun her around and guided her to the bed. Now her hands were on me, and I momentarily relinquished my hold on her glory to slip off my coat, my waistcoat, my shirt. She ran her hands over my bare chest, and teasingly tugged at the hair there.

I love a tease.

My breeches soon joined the rest of my clothing on the floor, and naked, we slid onto the bed. Very quickly I was hard, and she whimpered when she caught sight of my ever-present friend. I have been gifted, I cannot deny it, and no woman who has been with can, either.

I cupped her breasts in my hands, feeling the delightful sensation of her nipples brushing against my palms. Gasping with pleasure, she arched upwards, and as she did so I slid into her.

The next hour was ecstasy.

For both of us.

The Delay

2007-12-02T13:41:00.000-08:00

My apologies to all my loyal and intelligent Readers for the lack of a new chapter in my memoirs today, but tragically your Hero has momentarily succumbed to a catarrh and was unable to complete his latest missive. I shall return on the morrow, with the tale of my adventures at the house of Doctor Morgan, and what came afterwards.

Thank you most kindly for your patience.

The Fox

2007-12-01T20:58:00.000-08:00

Flossy turned out to be much amenable to being returned to Joseph, so once in the saddle I piloted her towards Stokington Court. The village seemed more welcoming than it had since my arrival; a weight of money in one's pocket and the promise of a well-warmed bed can do that to a man. Even the dull tones of Flossy's hooves upon the cobbles were music to my ears. Soon we reached the Court, and I found a most obsequious groom waiting for me there. The decrepit butler ushered me into the parlor, where I found Joseph engrossed in what appeared to be stitchery.

With a broad grin he looked up and brandished the cloth in his hands. "This new design I am making shall be the talk of Londontown this season," he crowed. "No other gentleman shall have a waistcoat half as fine!"

Now this was just pathetic.

Obviously, poor Joseph, under the influence of his henpecked father, had while I was away lost that urge to create mischief that I had spent years instilling in him. When I encountered him first in the cemetery, I had hoped that his dishevelment was an indication of some increased sense of the frailty of life, and that I was witnessing the birth of some new, devil-may-care Joe MacDonald. Alas, it seemed it was not to be.

It is one thing to enjoy fine clothes. I know many a strapping fellow who delights in a well-turned pair of breeches or a particularly fine cravat. Indeed, I myself have been known to play the jack-a-dandy, especially when some young petticoat is the prize. But there is a world of difference between appreciating garmentry, and a pallor-making obsession, doubly so when said obsession keeps one from adventuring.

With this in mind, I added a new entry to the private list of objectives I had been keeping since arriving in Stokington. Right after the entry reading "Plow Mademoiselle Margot Magee," I added "Revive Joseph MacDonald's Spirit."

"How did you find Flossy? I trust she is well?" asked Joseph anxiously.

"Oh quite well," I said easily. "I think the trot did her good. You should take her out more. 'Tis fine country for riding."

"Good, good," Joseph said with relief. "No broken legs then?"

"No, but very nearly a broken back," I said.

Aghast, he cried, "What?"

"You needn't worry, the only back injured was my own," I said, and gave him an abridged version of the previous night's revels.

"Oh, Dennis, I told you to be careful! That Brutus, I hear he is the devil himself. Why I heard he once knifed a man for offering him a spinach salad instead of steak! Can you imagine?"

"Unfortunately, after meeting the man I can. Although I must admit my interest has been piqued by the mysterious Mister Walker."

"Some damnable raconteur, no doubt," said Joseph dismissively.

"My dear Joseph, need I remind you that I am a damnable raconteur?" I asked lightly.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight, Dennis? I am near sick to death for lack of company, and I think I could perhaps use a damnable raconteur."

"Sorry, Joseph old fellow, but I have a prior engagement. Perhaps tomorrow? If your father is in the village, the three of us could trade stories over watercress Earl of Sandwichs and tea."

Joseph heaved a huge sigh. "Alas," he said bitterly, "tomorrow the fox hunt rides and my father rides with them."

The fox hunt! O happy day! I had not been on a fox hunt in nearly five years, and I immediately espied an opportunity to both slake my desire for the sport and perhaps draw old Joe out of his shell.

"Even better," I said. "You and I shall track the wily Renard to ground as well!"

"Oh Dennis," Joseph groaned. "I cannot stand the fox hunt. The poor fellow! Let him be, I say."

"He and I are kindred spirits, but it is hunt or be hunted, and I dare say I should never be caught, so it must be him. Besides," I said cunningly, "imagine the fine ruff you could add to your waistcoat from the sly one's tail?"

Joseph frowned uneasily, but I could see the temptation roiling in him. "Very well," he at last relented. "We shall ride."

"May I ask who runs the hunt?" I asked.

"Formally, it is the Lord Mayor of Great Stokington, but on this occasion he has seen fit to extend mastery to that Spaniard, the Duke of Marma."

"Who raises the mastiffs?"

"The very same."

"Well then, have your man over to the Duke of Marma's and get us some horses, and we shall have a merry run, in my case the unbeatable in full pursuit of the uneatable." I stood. "Good day to you sir, I must call upon the Duck and Deacon for my effects."

"Oh?" said Joseph, as he escorted me out. "You have returned to Menacing House?"

"Far from it," I snorted. "The fine Professor Papagoras has invited me to be his houseguest."

"Well, that is splendid," Joe said, and we reached the foyer.

"Good day to you, Joe," I said, and left.

My schedule was fair full: coney-catching at Doctor Morgan's in the evening and fox-catching at the Duke of Marma's the following morning.

The hunt was on!

The Breakfast

2007-11-30T21:43:00.000-08:00

The previous night's gallivanting resulted in my back aching even worse in the morning. I awoke in a modest but well-appointed bedroom in the house of Professor Papagoras and his three students. None of these three young women had presented themselves the night before, when the Professor and I arrived at his cozy townhouse in Great Stokington, but I had great hopes of making their acquaintance that morning. Given the events of the preceding night, I was now quite cured of taking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in women.

Upon dressing, I somewhat gingerly made my way down to the dining room, where breakfast was being served. The invigorating scent of bacon and eggs helped ease the pain in my back, as did the presence of three lovely young ladies at table.

Papagoras, already seated and reading the Times, managed to stand as I entered. "Ah, your Lordship, good to see you up and about," he said.

"Adopting strays, are we?" said one of the young ladies, a darkly hued brunette, rather tartly.

The Professor chuckled nervously. "You must forgive Mademoiselle Magee, your Lordship, she has a tongue of acid."

"Not nearly acidic enough," she muttered into her teacup. One of the other young women, a rather attractive blonde, giggled.

"Allow me to introduce you, your Lordship," said Papagoras hastily. "These three charming young ladies are students I acquired in Ireland last year. They have come to Stokington with me to learn the ways of London society."

"A noble goal," I said. "One day I hope to learn them myself."

"Mademoiselle Margot Magee you have already met. This young lass," he said, gesturing to the blonde demimonde, "is Miss Louisa Anne Powers, of a most worthy family in Ulster. Finally," and here he motioned in the direction of the third woman, a most dowdy girl of plain features, "we have Miss Thomasina Thompson, also of Ulstershire."

"I greet you most wholeheartedly," I said, and bowed. "I am Dennis St. Michel, the Viscount of Stokington."

"Oh, a Viscount," said Miss Powers in a most charming Irish lilt. "How fascinating. You must be ever so important," she said, simpering.

"Oh, hush yourself," said Miss Magee. "One would think you've never seen a man before. Boy, actually."

"I fear Mademoiselle Margot has formed an unflattering portrait of me. Tragic, since we have just met," I said, seating myself.

"Unflattering, or accurate?" she asked, smiling nastily across the table.

Oh, good. I was looking for a challenge. And she was not bad looking either.

"More unflattering than accurate," I said.

"So somewhat accurate. Thank you for correcting me, sir. I shall remember it."

"And I am no boy. I have twenty years. How old are you, mademoiselle?" I asked. Miss Powers and Miss Thomasina gasped, but Miss Magee showed no discomfort.

"Old enough to know the difference between arrogance and experience, and you seem long on the former and short on the latter," she said.

"A touch, a touch," I laughed, touching my breast. "But I have experience enough, more experience than you might expect."

"Oh, no doubt," she said, delicately taking a bite of a muffin. "I dare say the brothels of Brighton are ringing with the tales of your exploits."

Papagoras embarrassedly harrumphed and gulped for air. "Miss Margot, you shall mind your tongue at table!" he managed to squeeze out.

"Oh, do not mind her, Professor," I said with a wicked grin. "Without a doubt, Miss Margot's only motive is jealousy. She is doubtless as pure as the driven snow, as caged and coddled as a mynah bird, without the imagination to enjoy life, a flaw so typical of her sex. No wonder she lambastes the more daring and dashing men around her."

"Be careful what you say, Lordship," Miss Magee said angrily. "I am no shrinking violet like Thomasina."

"Oh!" gasped Miss Thomasina, who blushed furiously.

A strange noise emanated from the Professor. At first I believed him to be choking, then with shock I realised it was laughter. The night before he had let out great cackles, but this was a deep chuckle, a belly laugh if I may be so crude.

Tears streamed down his face. "Oh! Oh oh! At last we have found a match for Miss Margot! You had best watch yourself, Miss Margot, this fellow will cut you down to size," he choked out, then collapsed into a paroxysm of mirth again.

"Yes, watch yourself, Miss Margot," I said sweetly. "Or would you prefer I do it for you?"

Miss Margot could only fume in silence, trying to find a truly cutting remark. Miss Powers and Miss Thomasina looked on silently, scandalised by the table talk and shocked by Miss Margot's defeat. At last the Professor's fit of merriment subsided, and with a final chuckle he said, "I like you, Lord Stokington. These young ladies have run me to rags, but with you on my side I dare say I can hold my own."

"You are too kind, Professor," I said, and took a bite of eggs.

"Do me a great favor," Papagoras said. "Stay on as my houseguest. I could use the amusement."

Carefully setting down my fork, I said, "Professor, I am honored. I could think of no better company than yourself."

"Good, good," he said, "then it is settled. You shall stay here, and act as my aide-de-lieutenant against these incorrigible harridans."

"Professor," gasped Miss Powers.

"Do not worry, Mademoiselle Powers," I said. "I think you will find I am a much kinder constable than the Professor," and winked at her.

"Oh yes, which shall free me to be the wicked constable," laughed Papagoras.

After finishing my breakfast, I turned to the Professor. "I must fetch my articles from the Duck and Deacon. I shall see you again at luncheon?"

"If you can tear him away from his mikroscope," said Miss Margot.

"No doubt I shall," I said, and stood. "Good morning to you all."

I quickly made my way out into the street after making the proper bows. Well, well, well! The Mademoiselle Margot was quite the fiery lady!

I vowed then and there to be the most able aide-de-lieutenant to the Professor's general, the most able soldier possible--and I would keep my swordsmanship in practice.

After all, a good swordsman should be able to take three opponents at once, shouldn't he?

The Deal

2007-11-29T22:13:00.000-08:00

In a whirl of long gowns and elegant breech-clad legs, Margaret and I waltzed. The band played on, and the colorful maelstrom upon the parquet prevented any conversation between the Lady and myself. However, in due time, the tempo changed, and we began a stately country dance.

"You think you are cleverer than you are, milord," whispered Margaret to me as we moved through the allemande.

"How so?" I replied.

"That woman, there is something between you, I know it, do not deny it."

"Pardon me, mademoiselle, if I concentrate for a moment on the steps while I consider how to sufficiently allay your suspicions," I said, keeping an eye on my feet.

"'Allay my suspicions'? You are the most arrogant and deceitful creature in existence!" she hissed, and squeezed my hands in a vice-like grip as we shifted into a cotillion.

"Mademoiselle, I speak naught but the truth. Say the word and I shall leave at once!" I said as our faces passed close to one another.

She said nothing as we moved through the next change, but when we drew close again she glared at me, glanced at the floor, and said, "Tell me truly, Dennis, tell me the truth and I shall believe it." She looked me in the eyes and I was astonished to see she was being sincere. It almost hurt to reply. Almost.

"There is nothing between Madame Morgan and myself, your Grace. She is the wife of a friend, that is all," I said, and managed to set my features into an expression of sincerity without laughing.

Margaret still looked suspicious, but said nothing. At last the dance ended. I bowed, and she made her curtsy. I guided her from the parquet, and as we moved to the side, I placed my lips closed to her ear. "I told you before I was smitten. Did you think me false then?"

She looked at me with a humbled expression. "No, I did not. I had forgotten you had said that, Dennis."

I gently touched her chin with the tip of a finger. "I meant it, milady. Why, in six months time, no doubt you and I shall be--" I stopped, and looked away, blushing. Learning to blush at will is very difficult, but a skill well worth acquiring.

"Oh Dennis," she gasped, unable to contain her joy and excitement. "Do you mean it?"

"Hush," I said sternly. "I must be frank, milady. I can promise nothing now, for I have not yet made my fortune, and a rose as beautiful as yourself deserves the most fitting and well-appointed garden in which to grow."

"But surely your father can provide--" she said, rather desperately in my opinion.

"He has declared that I must make my own way in the world, at least until his own passing. It is the way of the St. Michels, my dear," I said, and shook my head, as if to impart onto her the foolishness of extending such outmoded traditions to the present day.

"If your father commands it, then you must obey," said Margaret softly.

"So you see that there can be no understanding between us, until I have come into some money. In fact, all I have upon me at the moment is a single sovereign, for gratuities and so forth." She frowned, and I reassuringly placed my hand upon her elbow, and smiled. "Do not worry, milady, for I have some prospects in London already."

"Ah, very good," she said, "At least you are not penniless. I cannot stand the wretched poor, even the aristocrats."

"In time, in time, all things will be resolved. Please be patient, and perhaps in a month, at the most two, we can make some arrangement."

"Very well," she said with a disappointed expression.

Just then Barrister Driver appeared. "Ah, your Lordship, just the gentleman I sought."

"And why is that, Mr. Driver?" I asked.

"Captain Brutus is putting together a game of whist, and would you believe, so far he has found only two other takers in this crush?"

"A game of whist? Surely there are many other players besides myself here tonight."

"Sadly yes," said Driver, grinning broadly. "But you see, the Captain has a reputation as being quite the master player, and all others fear his deal."

"And I?"

"Are known as the veritable boy prince of cardsharps in Stokington."

"I play ecarte, and some sheepshead," I protested, "but of whist very little."

"No whist?" asked Driver, looking a trifle disappointed. "Brutus will be put out, that he could not get together a game."

"I know a little," I offered, striving to be helpful. "Perhaps I could play a few tricks, if only to satiate the Captain."

"Oh capital!" declared the Barrister. "I must admit to you, your Lordship, an ulterior motive," he said, winking. "Captain Brutus has been looking for a new solicitor..."

"Ah, I see. And you thought that if you offered up a new mark, he should look favorably upon you?" I said, cocking an eyebrow.

Driver smiled guiltily, but otherwise said nothing.

"Very well. If I am to help you, you must help me, Driver. Loan me five pounds, would you be so kind?"

"Five pounds! Outrageous," he yelped.

"Five pounds, and I am sure to lose it to him, and won't he look favorably upon you then?"

"Oh, give him five pounds," said Margaret. "'Tis only money, you silly man."

Looking a trifle green, Driver passed me a five pound note. "Do not lose it too fast," he muttered.

"I shan't," I said. "Now where is this table?"

The little room on the second floor was congested with cigar smoke and the stout bodies of well-to-do men. Driver and I wove our way towards the center of the room, where a small table had been erected. Bottles of gin, brandy, port, and all manner of spirits were close at hand, as were a tray of Earl of Sandwichs. Three men were already seated as we approached.

Driver introduced me. "Mr. Christopher Walker you have already met," he said, gesturing to the tall purple-clad African explorer. I was not particularly surprised to find him there, as he had struck me as a bit of a chancer when we first met.

"And this," said Driver, "is the Greek gentleman Professor Papagoras," and motioned towards a wizened old man with a long white beard. Papagoras chuckled and drank deeply of his glass, whisky spilling out the sides of his mouth and staining his beard.

The last man needed no introduction. Well more than six feet tall, and with a chest like a barrel, this could only be the Captain John Brutus. "Captain Brutus," I said, "I have heard a great deal about you."

"And I you," he replied. His face was covered by the most extraordinary beard, which seemed to cling to it like moss, and grew, urchin-like, in every direction, leaving only the tiniest of gaps for his small, squinting eyes to peer out. His nose was large and red as a ripe tomato, and I could not for the life of me determine if he were smiling or grimacing. "Please, be seated," he said.

A tall rail thin woman, her stringy coal-black hair tied up in a bun, looked on nervously. His wife, I thought, and this was confirmed when Brutus barked at her, "Olive, fetch the Viscount a cigar." She whimpered, but quickly obeyed.

I sat, and looked cheerily at the other men. "Be glad to be out of that swell below," I said. "Not enough dash if you ask me."

"Not enough dash?" smirked Walker. "Politeness is the currency of kings at such a soiree."

"Aye," cackled the Professor, "They are even polite to us rascals."

"But not polite enough," I sniffed, taking an Earl of Sandwich off the tray. "If people were always kind and obedient to those who are cruel and unjust, we wicked people would have it all our own way. As it is, it is most inconvenient."

Brutus laughed uproariously, as did the Professor. Even Walker spared a chuckle. Brutus picked up a pack and riffed the cards. "Shall we begin?" he asked.

"Oh indeed," I said, and Walker and the Professor nodded.

"It is to be whist," said Brutus, and began to deal.

"Oh, whist! I have heard of that," I said, and broad grins appeared on the faces of Brutus, Walker, and the Professor.

"It is a very fine game," said the Professor. "You are sure to enjoy it, Lordship."

"No doubt I shall," I said, smiling brightly. "How do you play this game, then?"

-------

"So that is--"

"I believe it is one-hundred and forty-seven to me, Captain," I said. The Captain grumbled and gripped the table in his big meaty hands, but then pushed the sizable pot towards me. The Professor whooped and clapped, despite his greatly reduced stake.

"Oh, a touch, a touch," he laughed, tears streaming from his eyes. "You are well and truly fleeced now, Brutus,"

"One more hand?" I asked innocently.

The Captain ground his teeth, but he still had his pride, and I had not yet beaten him enough for him to back down. "Aye, one more."

He dealt, and play began. In the first trick, the Professor made the mistake of leading with the jack of diamonds, which I carried with the ace. As I swept the trick towards me, a huge, ham-like fist closed on my wrist, and I looked up into the alcohol-sodden face of the Captain.

"How many is that?" he asked. "Seven leads in a row?"

"Unhand me, sir," I said.

"You're cheatin', I know it."

"I am no cheat," I said frostily. "I am good enough I do not need to."

"Thought you couldna play," said Brutus evilly.

"That is not cheating, that is ordinary bluffing. Now unhand me."

"Oh, I'll unhand you, you rotten bastard," he roared, and jerked me up and away from the table, wine bottles flying crazily through the air. I landed first on my chair, which skittered away from the impact, and then on my back.

"I never cheat," I gasped, through a haze of rage and pain. I tried to regain my feet, but Brutus hauled me up with one hand.

"Cheat me in my own house, damn you!" he snarled. He pulled my face close to his. "You'd best get out, lessen I break your poz."

"Not without my money," I squeezed out between gritted teeth.

"Your money?!" he roared, and shook me like a rat.

The pain in my back was intense, but I ignored it as I said, "Won it fair and square. I shall not leave without my money."

"Give him his money." The voice was quiet, but commanding. Brutus turned, and as he did so I could see Walker standing there as still as a church on Saturday evening. In the swirling cigar smoke and dim light, he seemed to drift in and out of vision, phantomlike, but I could still see his hand under his coat, and the dull gleam of the polished wood of the butt of a pistol.

"He won fair and square," said Walker quietly. "I saw him. We all did. You lost. Now turn him loose."

Brutus snarled like a caged beast, but sensing the mood was turning against him, lowered me to the ground and released me. "Cozen me in my house, threaten me--" he blustered.

"No one's threatening you," said Walker, his hand still on the pistol. "Now give him his money."

"Like hell I will," bellowed Brutus, but he had lost the crowd, and someone in the back shouted, "He won! Pay him as a gentleman would!"

"There," he growled, as he swept my winnings off the table towards me. "Take your damned money."

I slowly picked it up, my back still aching. Brutus nodded to a pair of stout groomsmen by the door. "He has his money, now throw the bastard out."

Less than a minute later, I was picking myself off the ground outside the servants entrance, and picking bits of gravel out of my hands and shirt. Luckily, Brutus had not wanted to disrupt the party, and neither Margaret nor June Morgan had seen me.

"Sorry about that, old chap," drawled a voice, and I turned to find Walker leaning against the doorway.

"Sorry?" I laughed. "By God, I haven't had this much fun since I got here."

Walker laughed too, the first real laugh I'd heard from him yet. Still smiling, he said, "You should have lost to him."

"I hate to lose."

"No doubt," he said. "But you will have to learn how someday."

I reached into my coat and pulled out a wad of bills. "Your half."

"I couldn't," he said.

"We were partners."

"Still," he said, and smiled an enigmatic smile. "I must take my leave, your Lordship, but I dare say we shall meet again," and he disappeared back into the house.

I stood in the courtyard for a long moment, then turned towards the stables.

"Ah, Viscount," a reedy voice I recognised belonged to the Professor said, "wait a moment, please."

The old man was hobbling around the house, his crooked back slowing him to barely more than a shuffle.

"Yes, Professor Papagoras?" I inquired politely.

"How is your back, young fellow? That blackguard Brutus gave you quite a blow."

"Sore, but I shall manage. Thank your for your kind inquiry. Now if you may excuse me, it is a long ride back to Great Stokington."

"Ride? With an injured back? I shouldn't dream of it," he said, finally reaching me and nearly winded. "Let me take you back in my carriage."

"Oh, no," I said. "I really must take this horse back to my friend, and I should prefer not to impose."

"'Twould be no imposition at all, dear boy. It would be a just reward. I've long desired to see that bearded blowhard soundly thrashed, at cards if at nothing else, and thanks to you it's been done. Now I can die a happy man," he said, grinning wickedly.

"I live but to serve," I said, and bowed. This proved to be a ghastly mistake, as the pain from my bruised back nearly caused me to fall over. Papagoras rushed to my side, or rushed as quickly as a nearly lame man with a cane can rush.

"My dear boy, you are positively crippled. I will not allow you to ride back. You will ride in my carriage." Overcome with momentary pain, I was too distracted to protest. "Where are you staying, your Lordship?"

"Duck and Deacon," I gasped.

"That hovel?" the Professor snorted. "Those beds will destroy your spine, should you sleep in them in your condition." He signalled one of the grooms. "No, tonight you must stay at my house in my guest quarters. I insist."

"If you insist," I groaned as I straightened back up.

Soon we were in the carriage on our way across the darkened moors, with poor Flossy tied to the back and barely able to keep pace.

Once on the cushions of the carriage, the pain in my back began to fade, and my mind began to catalogue the night's inventory. I had gained nearly one hundred and fifty pounds, a new place to lay my head, wooed Lady Margaret, and received an assignation with Madame Morgan. In the negative balance I had gained a sore back and lost the warm embrace of Mildred, at least temporarily.

On the whole, a most profitable evening.

The Doctor

2007-11-28T18:47:00.000-08:00

Having acquired a horse, I whiled away the remainder of the afternoon playing whist at the Duck and Deacon; with the initial stake of a ha'penny I found in the lane, I was soon up by nearly a sovereign when the rickety grandfather clock sounded six. Bidding adieu to the increasingly disgruntled 'cardsharps' of Great Stokington, I hastily made my way back to my room and changed into something more fitting for a ball: a royal blue coat, my saffron waistcoat, and buff breeches. I checked my cheeks to ensure no stray whiskers had escaped my razor, and descended down to the stables.

God bless Joseph, for he had delivered his mare Flossy exactly as promised. Admittedly, the old screw had more of the glue factory than the racing stable about her, but she seemed strong enough to carry me to this John Brutus's.

Now, I do not care to boast, but horsemanship is one of my great loves, and indeed I care for nothing so much as I do a ride in the country, or perhaps a foxhunt. The evening was fine, for the portentous fog of the early morning had quailed beneath the quotidian sun, and as a result I enjoyed quite a fine sunset as I rode towards Little Stoke. With the liberal application of the spurs and the crop, I managed to provoke Flossy into something resembling a trot, and thus arrived at Captain Brutus's house.

Already a line of carriages stretched for hundreds of yards as guests waited to be discharged at the front step. The house itself was hideous, precisely what one might expect a former navy captain of no particular rank to buy, proving once again that you can buy a captaincy, but you cannot buy class. A grotesque green-gabled roof surmounted it, appearing as though spun from cheap glass, and the walls were brick of the most nauseating shade of vomit yellow. The house's design itself was most inharmonious, simply a long box with no ornamentation whatsoever. In truth I do not think I have ever seen such a vulgar edifice.

Avoiding the crush of carriages at the front, I steered Flossy towards the stables. From there I planned to enter via the servants' entrance and find Margaret, trading one nag for another. This would also neatly dodge the issue of an invitation, which of course I did not have.

I flipped a groom a penny, and instructed him to give Flossy some water and oats. The servants' entrance was not difficult to find, as the constant knot of activity around it gave it away. The key in times like these is to move forward with total confidence. Act like you belong, like no one can stop you, and no one will. As I moved through the back corridors and the kitchens, I saw the usual motley assortment: the footman out with his pipe, taking a quick smoke, the scullery maid flirting with a valet, the cooks carrying huge trays of food.

Between the din of the ballroom and the din of the kitchen there is always a curious lull, a handful of empty hallways connecting the two that lacks all activity. Perhaps it is to allow the man who moves between to acclimate himself.

I stepped into the ballroom, which was overwrought with lanterns and all manner of screens and draperies. A candle in the wrong place and the entire structure should ignite, I thought. Even at this early hour the room was filled with people, the din deafening, the heat suffocating. As I wended my way through the crowd, I snaffled a drink off a passing waiter's tray and quaffed it. Fail to get the proper fluids and you could die in such a soiree.

"Dennis!" Someone called my name and I surveyed the crowd.

"Dennis!" Again my name, but this time I glimpsed the hailer. It was the Barrister Driver, not necessarily whom I wished to see, but an amusing fellow nonetheless.

I crossed the room to find him with a small group of men. The only woman there was Driver's wife, Abigail, quite the beauty, with long red hair and a prodigious bust, but tragically while the middle and lower floors had much to offer, there was nothing in the upper floor. She gave me a dimwitted smile and returned to her drink.

"Gentlemen, may I present Dennis, the Viscount of Stokington," said Driver. I sketched a bow, as did the other men.

Driver went on. "Your Lordship, this is Mr. Christopher Walker," he said, gesturing to a strapping fellow in a purple coat. "Walker here is in African exploration."

"Really?" I said, interested despite myself.

"Yes," drawled Walker. "The Bangallan coast."

"Fascinating," I said.

Driver moved on to the next gentleman. "And of course you know Doctor Morgan."

The Doctor smiled a cold, callous grin as he shook my hand. "Of course, Lordship. Good to see you again."

"And you," I said. I have never liked the doctor, there is something of the vivisectionist about him.

Doctor Morgan smiled broadly at me, and clapped me on the shoulder. "In fact, Lordship, it is extremely lucky that you have arrived at such a time."

"Why is that, Doctor?" I asked. His hand felt very heavy on my shoulder.

"Because I was just telling these fine people of my latest experiments. I am very much interested in experimentation. Are you?"

"Perhaps," I said, a trifle uncomfortable. "It would depend on the nature of the experiment, I imagine."

"Well," the Doctor continued, still not removing his hand, "I have been working on a cure for syphilis--I believe we all know what a horror that disease is--and I think I may have discovered an inoculation against the contagion! But it's nature...it is not suitable for discussion around ladies, Madame Driver."

"Oh, by all means continue," said Abigail bravely.

"It consists of an injection to the buttocks, which causes the disease to fail to appear," he said.

"An injection to the buttocks?" I said. "How original. However did you uncover this method?"

"It occurred when I was reading about the practices of certain ancient Greeks," said Morgan. His hand really was quite heavy now. "The ancient Greeks were quite keen on medicine. Hippocratus and so forth, you know. There are any number of techniques pioneered by the ancient Greeks I should like to try."

"Oh, without a doubt," I said.

"Perhaps you would like to assist me, your Lordship," said the Doctor, with a broad, sharklike grin.

"Perhaps," I said stiffly.

"A most ingenious method, Doctor," said Abigail, looking rather stricken.

"Oh look, Doctor," I said. "Is that not your wife?"

"Where?" he asked, turning to look, and blessedly releasing my shoulder. "Oh. Yes. It is June."

"Thank you for that wonderful discussion of the nature of the Greek method, Doctor, but I have others to speak with," I said. "Mr. Walker. Barrister Driver, Madame Driver, good evening."

With great rapidity I made my escape. I saw no sign of Margaret, but the motion of the crowd soon caused me, entirely without intention, to cross the room, and I nearly walked into June Morgan. "Madame Morgan!" I said. "What an unexpected surprise!"

"Oh, good evening, your Lordship," she said, and made a brief curtsy, but her entire demeanour bespoke sadness.

"Is something the matter, Madame? You look out of sorts."

"Oh, no, 'tis nothing," she said, and fanned herself, but her half-hearted denials did little to dissuade my concern. And concerned I was, for 'tis tragedy for so beautiful a woman to appear so downcast. Her raven locks were cut in a most fetching style, and the way her bosom swelled against her corset was enough to take even the most celibate of monks' breath away.

"You seem distraught. Come, let us sit," I said, and, taking her by the elbow, guided her to one of the sophas that lined the edges of the room. We sat, and being rather forward, I took her hands in mine. "Now, tell me, Madame Morgan, what is the trouble."

Her large brown eyes looked into mine, and then abruptly she started to weep, a silent weeping that fortunately did not attract the attentions of those surrounding.

Have I mentioned I hate crying women?

"He never looks at me anymore," she sobbed.

"Who?" I asked.

"Who else, Rex, the coldhearted bastard," she said vehemently, and I was momentarily taken aback upon hearing her use a word no woman ever should. "He and that assistant of his, Nicholas, they spend the whole of the day in his offices, experimenting. He never even looks my way."

"Cry not, milady," I said, and handed her a handkerchief.

"Oh, oh, thank you, your Lordship. You are too kind," she said, dabbing at her eyes with it. "I must be hideous."

"Hideous?" I said. "Far from it. You are one of the lights of our village, and if the Doctor does not see that, well then the Doctor is a fool, if you will forgive me saying so."

"Do you really think I am beautiful?"

"Poseidon's nymphs themselves would look on in envy, sighing that Nature formed but one such woman."

"Please, stop," she said, smiling with embarrassment. What she really meant was, please, go on.

"The night is gone cold with resentment over the blackness of your hair, and the moon hides her face in shame from the luminosity of your eyes."

"Oh, your Lordship, you say the most lovely things." Madame Morgan's eyes were shining like stars now.

"Not lovely, but true, and there can be no harm in telling the truth."

"Perhaps you should come and dine with my husband and I some night, and we can hear more of your poesy," she said, and I very nearly wanted to cry, watching her pathetic attempts at lustful cunning. "I would invite you tomorrow night, but tragically my husband and Nicholas must venture into London and will be gone until the morn, your Lordship."

"Please, Madame, call me Dennis."

"Very well, Dennis, then I am June."

"June," I said, smiling.

"Dennis!" cried a very familiar and very unwanted female voice over the crowd, piercing ears and etching glass.

Damn! I had completely forgotten about Margaret.

"Dennis!" she screeched again, and I glimpsed her forcing her way through the crowds towards me.

"We will meet again," I whispered hurriedly to Madame Morgan. "Tomorrow night!"

She nodded, and I turned around just in time to come face to face with Margaret. Her face was cherry red, and she shot an infuriated glance at June. But luckily for both of us, she was able to contain her womanly nature and did not make an immediate scene.

"Madame le Duchess," I said, and swept down into a low bow.

Glancing up, I could see she was enraged, but still she dipped into a curtsy. God bless etiquette. "Monsieur le Vicomte," she said.

Whatever respite from her wrath the forms of polite society had afforded me were gone, and with cold anger she said, "Who is that woman?"

"Oh, look," I said, "they have ices," and I began to move towards the table laden with refreshments.

"Dennis, how dare you move away from me like that!" she said angrily.

"Keep your voice down, Margaret, this is a nice party."

"Answer me," she hissed. "Who is she?"

"The wife of a friend, Doctor Rexford Morgan. She was feeling rather faint in the heat and I helped her to a sopha."

"Oh. Well," Margaret said, and I could tell she was looking for somewhere to discharge her rage, "well, where was her husband?"

"I believe he was showing off some of his Greek medical techniques to Barrister Driver."

Margaret eyed me suspiciously. I'd won, and I think she knew I had won, but she was uncertain as to how.

"Hmph," she snorted, and fanned herself angrily. "She did not look like the right sort."

"What sort is that?" I asked. "And how is your dance card?"

"My dance card?" she said, bewildered.

"Almost empty! Superb!" I said, grabbing her by the hand and leading her towards the parquet.

"Dennis, what--" she protested, but then the band struck up, and I swept her into a waltz.

We danced.

The Horse

2007-11-27T22:32:00.000-08:00

The tea at Margaret's had been most refreshing, and I returned with a spring in my step to Great Stokington. I felt very lucky to have escaped intact from both Margaret and the Duchess, and this filled me with a profound sense of relief, but it soon faded. The joy of parting is nothing to the pain of meeting again, for the following night I must see her at Brutus's ball.

The details of the evening that followed were wholly pedestrian. I returned to the Duck and Deacon, took supper, and retired to bed, but not before sharing a few moments of ecstasy with Mildred. Since I had been ensconced at the inn for more than twenty-four hours, and showed no sign of dislodging, Madame Cooper left me alone. Show the slightest sign of vacillation and she will have you out the door, but cling like a barnacle and she will ignore you. Most people operate on the principle of doing as little as possible; make things difficult for them, and they will very often give you your way.

The following morning, I gave Mildred a solid boot out of bed, and then readied myself for the coming day. A quick shave, paying close attention to my lamb chops, then a brisk wash and I was ready to dress. Since I would be attending a ball that evening, I wore rather plain clothes, suitable perhaps for country sports or Polish royalty.

Unlike the previous day, the morning air was filled with a thick fog as I left the Duck and Deacon. A man could see no more than a dozen feet in front of him. I felt that this was perhaps ominous, but the important thing about omens is that they can be read any number of ways, so I decided the fog was ominous for my enemies and beneficial for me, and went about my day.

I went for a long walk in the country, then luncheoned with Joseph MacDonald. Over cold roast beef, I inquired as to this Captain John Brutus.

"A most bestial sort of fellow," sniffed Joseph. "He was in the Royal Navy, and the rumor is he was cashiered for brawling. He lives outside Little Stoke."

"Describe him to me."

Joseph frowned in thought. "Tall, dark hair. Ah yes! He wears a very thick beard, which tells you everything you need to know."

"Yes, never trust a man with a beard; he's most likely hiding something," I said.

"Still, I must inquire, Dennis; you have only been in Stokington two days. However did you wrangle an invitation?"

"I didn't," I said, taking a bite of buttered bread.

"Then how do you plan to get in?" Joseph asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"On the basis of my wits and charm." I flashed a smile. "They have never let me down yet."

"Oh, Dennis," Joseph groaned. "This Brutus, he's a very dangerous chap. I heard he killed a sailor in the South Seas over a woman. Be careful."

"I am always careful."

"You are always reckless, you mean."

"Still, you are absolutely right, Joe. I must take every precaution to ensure I shall not be turned away. Thank you for your pertinent advice."

Joe looked slightly mollified, but nearly choked on his roll when he heard my next words: "With that in mind, I need your horse."

He sputtered. "Flossy? Whatever do you need her for?"

"Well, I can't very well turn up on foot when every man jack will have a carriage, can I? It would be most improper."

"I cannot loan you my horse! You will return her with two broken legs, or perhaps not at all!"

"My dear Joseph, I am almost offended. Here I am, a bosom friend in his hour of need, and you begrudge me the use of your horse for but a single evening. Does not the Good Book preach charity? What would the vicar say?"

"I think he would say I would be wise not to loan you my horse!"

I heaved a great sigh. "Very well, Joe. No horse, then. Well, that changes a great deal. The saffron waistcoat is right out."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh do excuse me, talking to myself. I was just thinking that I would be unable to wear my royal blue coat and saffron waistcoat with my buff breeches, as the road dust from a long walk would ruin them."

Joseph nodded. "A prudent notion."

"I imagine instead I shall have to wear the vermilion-and-green checked coat with the blue striped waistcoat." He began to squirm in his seat, listening to me describe this sartorial abomination.

"And the breeches would most definitely have to be the plum-colored ones. And perhaps the rose silk shirt..."

"Oh take the horse!" he burst out. "Anything to prevent you from committing such a crime against fashion."

"Why thank you, Joseph, you are most generous," I said, and smiled.

Clothes make the man, and sometimes they make the man a horseman.

The Tea

2007-11-26T20:41:00.000-08:00

I dare say Joseph was an absolute mine of information, but declined my invitation to accompany me to Lady Margaret's house in Least Stokington. Newly armed with word of the recent vicissitudes of the Dukes of Devon, I decided to attend to a few errands in Great Stokington before making my play in Least Stokington. A quick stop at the village florist's, the chocolatier's, and an old antique store, and I was as well armed with suitable trinkets for Lady Margaret and her mother as I was with precious information obtained from Joe. The shopkeepers were more than willing to lend to me on credit; sometimes it is a marvelous thing to be a St. Michel.

Now, Least Stokington is a mile west of Great Stokington. Both sit upon the River Forth (which, Dear Reader, is not to be confused with the River Forth of Scotland, for that is a fairly broad body of water, whilst our River Forth is scarcely more than a jumped-up stream), but Great Stokington is closer to the Channel, and as such receives the bulk of the up-river trade. Hence the names--Great Stokington is the larger of the two villages. Roughly two miles south lies the hamlet of Little Stoke; barely a place where two paths cross, it is there that the Honorable Joseph MacDonald's father is the Lord Mayor. As I had no horse, I was forced to walk, but a single mile is hardly something of which to complain, and indeed the walk was most agreeable. The rains had left the heath verdant and lively, and the air was redolent with the smells of flowers. Birdsong surrounded me on every side, and I felt the happiest man in the world.

After about half an hour, I arrived at Least Stokington. Lady Margaret's house there has no proper name; it is in many respects the least and most shabby of her domiciles. Her ducal seat lies elsewhere--of course, she takes her duchessal seat where-ever she goes. The house in Least Stokington is a townhouse, not some grand palatial manor, and my first reaction upon seeing it again was that I did not like it. It was run-down, and showed every sign of neglect. Far be it for me to lecture others on the proper etiquette, but it feels somehow disrespectful to Stokington for her to treat her home here in this fashion.

Package under my arm, I smartly rapped on the door, and waited until a liveried butler answered. Unlike Joseph's senile old fool, I recognised immediately there would be no outwitting this stern fellow. I raised my hat, and said with my most winning smile, "Good day, sir. Dennis St. Michel, the Viscount of Stokington, here to pay my respects to the Dowager Duchess of Devon on the untimely passing of her husband, the Duke." Sometimes it pays tenfold to be particularly formal in these situations.

Seeing he could find no fault with my phraseology, the butler snorted, and said, "Come in."

He left me to wait momentarily in the foyer, and I surveyed the place. The aura of decrepitude I perceived from the exterior was somewhat less pronounced inside, but still I was a trifle offended. It was not right she should disrespect the town and county that had given her so much in her youth.

The butler returned, and with an ill-concealed glance of contempt, escorted me into the parlor. The first impression I had was of overwhelming pink: pink silk curtains, pink papered walls, a pink sopha, indeed even a table of the pinkest cherry wood. After a few moments I felt as though I were in an intestine.

The Dowager Duchess, who is Margaret's mother, was seated on the sopha. Perhaps once she had been handsome, but the years had taken their toll on her long face and she now resembled nothing so much as an old she-goat. The slight growth of beard did little to dispel the likeness.

"The Viscount of Stokington," the butler stiffly announced, and then made his departure. The Duchess rose and curtsied, which I returned with a most proper bow.

"Young Dennis," said the Duchess, with a rather stiff smile. "Thank you for taking the time to visit us. We are honored by your presence."

"On the contrary," I said earnestly, "the honor is solely mine. I would be entirely remiss should I fail to pay my respects to the survivors of a truly great man."

"Hush, Dennis," she said firmly. "Your roguish 'charm' will get you nowhere here."

"Madam, with all the respect that is due to you, I fear you have misread me greatly. While it is true your husband and I had the occasional disagreement, I must confess I felt great respect and gratitude towards the Duke. Perhaps not fondness or affection, but respect and gratitude nonetheless."

"Gratitude? Whatever for?"

"While it is a commonplace that amongst my generation there is naught but debauchery and contempt for the past, there are still those who recall your husband's heroism at the Battle of Plassey, your Grace."

She stared at me, agape, momentarily at a loss for words. "Why, young Dennis, I had no idea you were aware of my husband's early career. It has been entirely overshadowed by his years in Parliament."

"Indeed, your Grace, not merely aware, but deeply filled with feelings of awe. He opened India, madam. For that I am eternally grateful," I said, and here I gave a roguish grin, "because where else shall I get my Darjeeling?"

"Oh you," she said stiffly, but I sensed her warming to me. "Speaking of tea, would you care to join my daughter and me, your Lordship?"

"I would be honored."

In mere moments, the most able servant I have seen in my twenty years laid a fine table for us on the veranda.

"I must compliment you on your servants, your Grace," I said. "They are exceedingly well-mannered."

From inside the house came a commotion. "That plate is not nearly clean," hectored a shrill, ear-piercing voice. "Take it back and clean it again, you idiot girl!"

"My daughter," said the Duchess, and Margaret strode onto the veranda.

Her eyes lit up as she saw me, but her irritating voice was correct in every manner. "Lord Stokington, what a pleasure to have you in our home."

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, your Grace. The opportunity to have tea with two such beautiful and shrewd young ladies does not often present itself."

At this, the Duchess tutted and fanned herself, contriving to look mildly scandalised. I stood quickly and pulled out a chair for Lady Margaret.

"Her Grace the Dowager Duchess was just telling me something of your father's exploits in India, your Grace."

"Hmm?" said the Duchess, "I beg pardon, your Lordship, but what was that, precisely?"

"You were telling me how criminally under appreciated the Duke's service abroad has been," I said, and dropped a wink to Lady Margaret, who tittered.

The Duchess sniffed. "You'd best watch this one, he has too much of the gaming parlor of him."

Ignoring this blatant insult, I smiled as the tea girl arrived, balancing a tray on one hand while carrying a kettle in the other. "Ah, excellent, the tea has arriv--"

"No, you ignorant cow," shouted Margaret. "I specifically said the blue china print teapot."

"B-but your Grace," the tea girl stammered, "the blue china print, you used her last evening, she's dirty."

"I do not care. Clean it and fetch it at once."

The tea girl stood there for a moment, until Margaret shouted, "I said, at once!" at which she bolted from the veranda.

"The help in this village are completely incompetent," Margaret said imperiously. "London is superior to the country in every respect."

"Begging your Grace's pardon, not in every respect," I said. "The flowers here are quite the best in the world." From my package I produced a bouquet of wildflowers. "These are for you, your Grace."

Margaret smiled in delight, and took the flowers. "They are beautiful, Dennis."

"I trust I am not being too forward."

"Not at all," Margaret gushed, while her mother frowned.

"Put those in water, they will last longer," I said with a smile. "Perhaps long enough for you to take some of Stokington back to London with you."

"That would be marvelous," she said.

"The superiority of our foliage aside, I do trust that you both are finding adequate amusements here in Devon," I said to the Duchess.

"Fair enough," she said grudgingly, but Margaret quickly chimed in with, "Fair enough, indeed most fair, for while the country lacks London's refinements, there are entertainments enough if one looks for them. Why, just tomorrow night there is to be a ball at Captain John Brutus's country home, and dearest Mama here has found any number of her precious antique spoons."

"Spoons?"

"Aye, yes, she collects them. A silly affectation, if you ask me."

"No one did," said the Duchess, looking rather offended.

"Silly and foolish," Margaret pronounced definitively.

"I must respectfully disagree, Lady Margaret," I said, and both women looked at me, startled.

"Oh yes," I said airily. "I dabbled a bit in spoon-collecting in my youth. Nothing of great seriousness, for I lacked the passion of the true collector. But still, I have nothing but the most sincere appreciation for--in fact," I said, "I just recalled--"

"Oh what is it, your Lordship?" said the Duchess with bated breath.

"I was passing by an antique shop in Great Stokington when I happened to spy in the window--well, it would be simpler to show you," and with this, I reached into my package and pulled forth a trio of pewter spoons, engraved with the names of the Georges. "Coronation spoons, I believe."

The Duchess gasped in delight. "A complete set, too! Oh how marvelous, Lord Stokington! What a fortuitous find!"

"You are quite correct, your Grace, but tragically the ardor for spoons has cooled somewhat in my breast and I...the thought occurs, your Grace."

"Yes?" the Duchess said eagerly.

"Would you care for these spoons? I feel you shall enjoy them far more than I."

"Oh, Lord Stokington, I could not possibly..."

"I insist, your Grace."

It did not take much more prodding from me for her to accept the spoons, and after that she was far more affectionate and favorable towards me. The rest of the afternoon passed relatively sedately, although I confess the constant talk of spoons soon grew tedious in the extreme. I did, however, notice that the higher I rose in the esteem of the Dowager, the lower I seemed to fall in Margaret's. This would not do.

Soon, the tea was finished, and I said my farewell to the Dowager, who barely spared me a glance as she examined the newly-acquired spoons. I quietly asked Margaret if she would escort me to the door.

In the foyer we paused.

"Very clever, with your spoons," she said. "She'll dote on you now."

"A politic gift, I admit, but nothing more," I said. "I came to see you, not your mother."

"Me?" she said, attempting disbelief but achieving haughty satisfaction.

"Indeed, for since our meeting in the carriage, you have not been far from my thoughts. If I may be so bold, your Grace?"

"By all means, be so," she said, unable to contain her eagerness.

"Very well. I find myself...smitten with your Ladyship," and even for me the sheer enormity of the lie caused it to pause on my tongue, but the ill-concealed squeal she emitted indicated she had not noticed. "The flowers were in honor of your late father, but these are in honor of you."

From inside my package, I produced the last item, a box of finest French chocolates. "Please accept them as a gift from me."

Margaret's eyes were very large and I could not help but notice the glutton's twinkle present in them as I placed the box in her hands.

"Thank you, Dennis," she said. "I mean that most sincerely."

"You are most welcome." I opened the door to leave, and then turned to her again. "Captain Brutus's party?"

"Yes?" she said hopefully.

"Shall you be there?" I asked, and when she nodded her assent, I said, "Then so shall I. Good day to you, your Grace." And I took my leave.

A most productive afternoon, in my opinion. All I need do to win Lady Margaret's hand is be good. I think I could be a good man if I had fifty thousand a year.

And tomorrow night, I shall dance.

The Fop

2007-11-25T20:49:00.000-08:00

The morning dawned bright and cool, and I awoke most refreshed. I quickly washed and shaved, and as I did so, I contemplated my next move. In life, as in dueling, a fellow needs a second, someone to pick up the blade and carry on the fight should a fellow fall. If I was to pursue the hand of Margaret, Duchess of Devon, I would need more than wits and guile. I would need information, as well as a loyal companion to watch my back.

Throughout my early years, my bosom chum was always the Honorable Joseph MacDonald, son of the Lord Mayor of Little Stoke. Now, as the years progressed, it became increasingly apparent to me that the source of his affection for me was more due to eros than to philia, but aside from the regrettable incident in the cemetery the previous day, he has the good sense to keep such bestial desires hidden. Disregarding the possibility of arrest and imprisonment, he knows that I do not share his proclivities, and prefer the fairer sex.

I decided old Joe would be the best fellow in the world to act as my lookout, and therefore prepared to depart for Stokington Court immediately. Joe has always been a bit of a jack-a-dandy and a fop, and places great stock in appearance, so I dressed in my finest taupe breeches, a coat of deep wine-colored wool, with a canary-yellow embroidered silk waistcoat and a white silk shirt. This, along with my dusky-gray hat, would mean that Joe would find little fault with my appearance, and therefore be amenable to lending help.

The rain of the previous day had vanished, and the mud had dried in the early morning sun, leaving Great Stokington washed clean and refreshingly vibrant. While Madame Cooper haggled with a lodger over their bill, I quietly made my escape from the Duck and Deacon. I had no desire to speak with my ersatz landlady while I had nary a shilling to my name.

With the crisp morning air filling my lungs, the short walk through the village to Stokington Court was most agreeable. In virtually every respect, I find Stokington Court to be superior to Menacing House. It is on the edge of the lively and enthusiastic village, not languishing on a dreary moor. While Menacing House appears extruded from the very stones of the earth themselves, Stokington Court has the proper and decent appearance of a domicile designed by men, for men. Menacing House is a feudal wreck, while Stokington Court is a very fine manor house. All of this means I hold Stokington Court in high regard, and would rather it be my house than that Gothic monstrosity four miles out on the heath.

Joseph MacDonald can be very stubborn and a bit of a coward. It is his worst flaw, and he does not respond well at all to bullying. In my experience it is better to decide things before he has a chance to think about them; once he has agreed to something, he will not go back on it, for fear of looking a poor sport. Keeping this in mind, I rapped smartly on the front door to Stokington Court with my walking stick. Momentarily, an aged butler opened the door.

"May I help you, good sir?" he inquired, with only the slightest touch of senility to his voice.

"Indeed my good man," I said in my most hearty voice. "Lord Stokington to see my friend Mr. Joseph MacDonald. Here you are," I continued, "hat, and redingote. Make yourself useful, there's a good fellow." Handing the specified articles to the butler, I strode into the foyer and began to ascend the stairs.

"B-but sir!" the butler protested. "Master MacDonald is not yet risen!"

"Good," I said cheerily. "I shall wake him."

The confused servant could barely hobble after me, and by the time he had mounted the stairs, I had located the bedchamber of my good friend, the Honorable Joseph MacDonald.

Throwing open the doors, I boomed in my very best things-are-going-to-go-my-way-and-there-is-absolutely-nothing-you-can-do-about-it voice, "Rise and shine, Joe! Day has broken!"

The vaguely inhuman creature beneath the sheets let out a groan like a death rattle, but otherwise made no move to rouse itself. Obviously, firmer measures were needed. I poked the supine figure with my walking stick. "Time to get up, Master MacDonald! Strong Drink is a mocker, as you are discovering, but that is no excuse to lie abed!"

Again the groaning mass under the bedcover made no move, so I jabbed it harder. This time Joe let out a startled yelp, and cried out, "Lay off, you demon!"

"Aye, demon indeed, and you are in Hell, young Joseph," I cried. "This demon's name is Rum, and see what happens if you cross me," and I jabbed him again with the stick.

At long last, he stuck his head from under the sheet. His bloodshot eyes suggested a man intimately familiar with the geography of Gin Lane. "Dennis?" he croaked disbelievingly.

"In the flesh," I said with the proper mixture of sternness and good cheer. "Now out of bed, get dressed, and we shall discuss over breakfast any number of outrageous pieces of mischief we are going to perpetrate."

And with that I strode from the room.

Twenty minutes later, Joe joined me in the morning room. I was already on my second cup of tea, having impressed on the old butler the absolute essentialness of strong Indian Darjeeling to the waking process. I must admit, Joe looked a damned sight better than he had the day before. His clothes lacked the strong stench of brandy and rum, and his hair and complexion seemed healthier and fuller of life. In addition, his sartorial choices suggested a man more in control of himself, more continent. Admittedly, with his tiny, pinhole-like eyes, upturned nose, and broad fleshy cheeks, he still maintained a somewhat porcine appearance, but at the least he was a well-dressed pig.

He quickly sat, and with some cajoling on my part, began to tuck in to the repast laid out for us by the servants. After we had filled our bellies somewhat, he spoke.

"Very well, Dennis, what is it now?"

"What is what?" I asked, carefully taking the appearance of bafflement.

"You're up to something, and no mistake," he said.

"I cannot visit an old friend whom I have not seen in seven years without some other motive?"

"No," said Joe bluntly. "You cannot."

I sighed. "As you wish. I am, as you have perhaps noticed, a bit of a rascal."

"You don't say," Joe said, a slightly sour grin on his face. "I believe I discovered that myriad times when some scheme or plan of yours blew up in our faces."

"A rapscallion, a cad, a bounder, even a bit of a...scoundrel," I said somewhat melodramatically. "And it is true, I've had fun in being so. But to tell you the truth, I am beginning to tire somewhat of such a life."

"No!"

"Indeed. I feel the urge to root myself, to contribute to a community. In fact, for a brief insane time, I seriously contemplated taking holy orders."

Joe looked aghast. "But surely you would have been struck by lightning in the pulpit?! Or the church would have burned to the ground!"

I raised a hand in a reassuring fashion. "Fortunately for myself, the Church of England, and whatever poor benighted parish should have gotten me as a priest, I came to my senses. I realised that I was not suited to religious life. But the urge remained, a desire to better myself."

I paused to bite into a scone here, and Joe looked impatiently at me.

"Then I recalled the one person who always sought to improve me, whose moral advice I had disregarded for so long."

"The Widow Worth?" said Joe, puzzled.

"No," I said.

"Master Wilson?"

"No, guess again."

"The curate of the parish? The town constable?"

"No," I sighed.

"Your father?"

"Definitely not," I said firmly.

"Then who? You have me at a loss, Dennis."

"I am, of course, speaking of the Lady Margaret."

The look of horror that passed across Joe's face would have done any spectre proud. "No, that cannot be. You have always despised Margaret!"

"Despised her for her attempts to waken my own better nature, Joe! Can you not see how deluded I was? And now I find her father has died, leaving her in need of a strong right hand, a male presence to make her life less onerous, at precisely the same time I had my epiphany!"

"Well..." said Joe somewhat doubtfully.

"There can be no doubt in my mind that the Good Lord awoke such feelings in my breast at such a propitious time so that I might minister to Lady Margaret in her hour of need!" I said triumphantly, and polished off my cup of tea.

"Be that as it may, Dennis, what makes you believe she would look at all favorably upon your suit?"

"I think that as a lady of great refinement and discernment, she shall see in me the very qualities she needs in these difficult times. I intend to pay my respects to her this very afternoon, as a matter of fact, and with luck she shall come to view me most favorably."

"But," said Joe, quizzically, "I do not understand what role I play in all this."

"Truth be told, Joe, I have been away from Stokington for seven years. Much of what was once familiar is now strange, and much of what is new is unknown. I need your guidance. I need your help. You know this place, these people, better than anyone. You are the only one who can do it."

If you want someone to help you, it only makes sense to tell them they are the only ones who can. It flatters their sense of charity and makes them feel important. As I said the last few words, Joe visibly straightened and began to preen.

"Well, Dennis, I shall help you as best I can. What do you need?"

"Information, old friend," I said, and leaned in close. "Tell me everything."

And he did. Forewarned is forearmed, and when I call on Margaret I shall be very well armed indeed.

She will not know what hit her.

The Inn

2007-11-24T22:09:00.000-08:00

A chap needs a place to lay his head. This is a truth that none can deny, for a man who gets no sleep wastes away. My plans were not much in disarray due to my hasty exit from Menacing House, for I had not planned to visit that decrepit wreck at all. I had arrived on the poor man's private coach, the Royal Mail, earlier in the morning with the intention of attending Master Wilson's funeral, and then making a fast leg away. But the Lady Margaret, for all her dubious charms, had presented me with a golden opportunity to better myself. Now there is one thing that trumps a marquess, and that is a duke; admittedly, being married to a duchess does not make one a duke, but it is very nearly the same thing. With this in mind I decided to press my suit towards the Lady Margaret, which would require me to stay in Stokington. Therefore I needed some more permanent lodgings.

The long walk from Menacing House to Great Stokington gave me time to cool my head and abate the fury that the meeting with my father had aroused in me. I soon returned to my usual equanimity, and I even had a short chuckle as I approached the village.

The quaint hamlet glistened in the late afternoon sunlight, the rain having departed like a veil being lifted. It was a sight to gladden even the hardest heart, and I felt my spirits rise. Tomorrow is, after all, a new day, I thought. Why, perhaps this was the best thing. A clean break. A new start.

Having not intended to stay long in Stokington, I had left my meagre effects at the coachhouse. These I quickly gathered, and in the deepening gloom I made my way through the muddy streets to the local inn, the Duck and Deacon. Now of course I had no money, being dependent on my father for an allowance, so there was of course no chance of my renting a room. A word of advice at this point: never allow such things to discourage you. Be audacious, be bold, and you can do anything. It does not matter whether you are right or wrong, so long as you are definite.

With this in mind, I swept open the door and strode into the common room. A scene of raucous domesticity greeted me. Hens turned on spits above a broad hearth while dogs wrestled in a knotted, writhing heap. The wide wooden tables gleamed with a sheen of spilled beer, and in the air were the familiar tavern smells of alcohol, cooking meat, and sweat.

The usual crowd of farmers, artisans and laborers filled the room nearly to bursting, and the din was deafening. Here and there I saw the faces of the village's notables: Doctor Morgan, the Widow Worth, and Barrister Driver, the town clerk and solicitor. Only Driver met my eye, giving me a friendly nod. The Widow Worth merely glared at me; many a time I had shrugged off her meddlesome advice, usually to my benefit. Morgan was deep in conversation with his assistant Nicholas, perhaps too deep, if I am any judge of men.

But only one face I wished to see: that of Madame Cooper, the innkeeper. I found her quickly near the kitchen. A woman nearly as broad as she was tall, with a face as wizened as an old apple, she had run the inn for nearly as long as I had been alive, and her husband for as long before that. I came up behind her and gently tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, and with a startled shout, nearly launched a tray of buns into the rafters. "Lord Stokington, you nearly scared me half to death!"

"I do beg your pardon," I said with my best smile, "but when I spot a beautiful woman across a crowded room, I must make my way towards her, regardless of how many trays of buns I must upset."

"Oh, pooh, you rascal," she said, frowning, but a slight flush to her cheek suggested to me she was pleased. "You always were a silver-tongued flatterer."

"'Tis not flattery if it is true, madam, and as for tongues of silver, your majestic beauty and magnificent wisdom makes all such organs tarnished, leaving me flat-footed and slow-tongued," I said, and bowed deeply.

She tutted and smiled a little smile of embarrassment. "Now what brings you to the Duck an' Deacon, Lordship?"

"Would you believe me if I said the joys of your company?"

"No, I should bloody well not," she snorted with a laugh. "A rapscallion and a slippery Jim, that's you, Lordship. Iffen you told me the sun was up in the morning, I should check out the window afore I believed you."

"Well, then, let me say that I am here for the splendor of your ale," I said.

"That I shall believe," she said, and beckoned one of the serving girls towards us. The girl was a likely looking thing, with a pretty round face and a pretty round rump. "Fetch Lord Stokington a tankard of our finest, Mildred," said Madame Cooper. Mildred, the pretty serving girl, went to fetch the beer, granting me only a single backwards glance. Still, I have made do with much less.

"What brings you to Great Stokington, Lordship?" asked Madame Cooper. "I heard a rumor that you had a break with your father before you left for Oxford, so imagine my surprise, seeing you here."

"It is amazing what one hears, is it not?" I said, with a laugh. "No, I have returned to bury my old schoolmaster."

"Ah yes, the late Master Wilson. A tragedy, that."

"A man of a most gloomy and dreary countenance, but one who helped guide me to manhood, and to whom I owe a great debt. Tomorrow I must pay my respects to the Widow Wilson, and ensure her household is well arranged." I must do no such thing, but it sounded good.

'Oh, bless you, Lordship," said Madame Cooper. "I always knew you had a soft spot in your heart for Martha. Where is that girl?" she said, looking around in frustration. She gasped in startlement as Mildred popped up at her elbow. "Drat you girl, I should put a bell on you."

Handing me the tankard, she said, "Drink up, for Master Wilson."

"For Master Wilson," I murmured, and drank deeply. I quickly downed the thick brew, and smacked my lips in satisfaction. "That will put hair on your chest!"

"Aye, my thanks, Lordship."

"Now," I said, "I must make my way back to Menacing House, madam."

"Oh no," said Madame Cooper, aghast. "It is near four miles, it has fallen dark, and it has begun to rain again. Surely you cannot mean to walk back in the wet and the dark?"

"I must, Madame Cooper, for I have no lodgings in town."

"Then you must stay here for the night. My conscience won't permit me to let you go out in that weather. Stay. I insist."

"Well, if you insist," I said, with a grudging smile.

---

The bed in the room at the end of the hallway was barely wide enough to fit one person on it. Certainly two could not sleep side to side. Fortunately, Mildred and I found another way to fit on the bed.

See how easy that was?

The Book

2007-11-23T14:03:00.000-08:00

The silken sound of the door sliding shut behind me was like a gunshot in the still of the library. A fire roared in the hearth, and on every side, firelight flickered off the leather spines of countless tomes. A high-backed chair crouched, toadlike, somehow shorter and squatter in the dim light, before the fire. The thick fug of cigar smoke stung my eyes and coarsened my throat, as I allowed my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Then from the chair, came a voice from the past. “Back so soon?”

I said nothing.

“If I recall correctly, before you left you swore ‘that the hounds of hell themselves should not drag you back’, and that you intended to make your fortune far from this ‘stinking pile’, as you described it. Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong,” I said, “and I shall.”

“Expelled?!” he roared, and for the first time my father roused himself from the chair, his tall lean form looming ferociously. “Expelled?!”

“Father, I can explain,” I began, but he would have none of it.

“And for what,” he continued, nearly shaking with fury, “for dueling? For some foolish schoolboy grudge?”

“’Twas not foolish, Father. My honor had been—“

“Your honor?” he snorted. “For seven hundred years this family has been the backbone of Devonshire, soldiers and barristers and priests, our honor built on the bedrock of decency and duty, and you boast of your honor? The honor of a brigand, a conniver and a thief?”

I felt my blood pound in my temples as rage swelled inside me. “How dare you, Father? I have never stolen a penny in my life, but I dare say if I had stolen entire counties I should be feted in every townhouse in London!”

A deafening silence descended. “So,” my father said in a poisonous whisper, “you think so little of your heritage? You think this family means nothing? All the years of sacrifice for king and country, all the deaths on the battlefield and on the ocean’s wave? You dare to equate them with your sordid little misdeeds?”

I willed myself towards quietude, but failed in the endeavour. “Sacrifice? Duty? How long has it been since a St. Michel rode at the head of an army? An hundred years? Two hundred?”

My father strode towards me, his face flushed with anger. “Why must you denigrate the past?” he bellowed.

I gave the only response I could: an honest one. “Why are you so content to live there?”

“You do not understand how hard our family has struggled to rise to our current position, Dennis.”

“I understand that you nearly never leave this house, or this room. You spend your whole life confined with old portraits and books!”

The weight of literature around me suddenly became oppressive, as if every book on the shelves had collapsed down upon me. Had I ever seen my father without a book? How could a man be such a slave to letters?

My father said angrily, “This house, these stones, they are our very being. This is Menacing House, not some country hovel, can’t you see that?”

I picked up a century-old volume of de Terzi, its leather cover pitted with age and time. “These books, these walls, they are not all we are. There is more to life than this!”

“You know nothing of life!”

“I know that it must be lived, if it is to have any value,” I said furiously. “And I intend to live it, all the same to you, sirrah.”

“Oh,” my father said in mock surprise, “it is ‘sirrah’ now, is it? With no education, no money, no connexions, and yet you’ll live life?”

“I shall find a way,” I said, rashly.

Looking at me with hard, cold eyes, my father sneered. “No doubt. As you have always done so, I suppose, through lies, deceit, and brigandage, you common, ugsome thief.”

“How dare you call me a thief,” I screamed in fury. “Here’s for your books, you bloody whoreson!” and I cast the de Terzi into the fire.

“No!” my father cried, and scrambled for the precious volume, but it was too late; the ancient vellum crackled madly on the hearth.

“You rank blackguard,” my father said, crouched over the fire with tears streaming down his pocked cheeks. “Get out, damn you, get out!”

“You could not keep me a moment longer,” said I, and I threw open the door and strode out.

From the dim inferno of my father’s library to the cool clear rain of the moors in a twinkling, and I angrily strode along the cracked avenue that led to the lane. A flock of sheep made its way across the avenue, grazing on the sodden grass that sprouted from between the broad flagstones, and as one ambled across my path, I gave it a frustrated kick.

How dare he call me a thief?! How dare he! I shan’t return to Menacing House; this time, I mean it. Let my feet take me where they will; if I do not meet with agreeable things, I shall at least meet with something new.

Beware, world, for here comes Dennis St. Michel.

The Manor

2007-11-22T12:57:00.000-08:00

Menacing House! O thou monstrous edifice, a testament to man’s vanity, greed, and arrogance! The ancient seat of the St. Michels loomed before me, its slate and granite mossy and damp, its gargoyles leering insolently out over the heath. Behind me, Margaret’s coach slowly trundled off. For a brief, fleeting instant, I contemplated calling after it, to take me away from this most hated of places. As much as I detested Margaret, my skin crawled as I considered entering that mighty hovel.

At last, I made my way up the cracked, potholed avenue leading to the narrow, cramped vestibule. I paused upon the lintel, my very feet loath to cross into those decaying halls. But duty cannot be denied. With a great feeling of unease, I entered. My unease only increased as I passed beneath the disapproving eyes of the long generations of my forebears, whose portraiture lined the great hall.

What nonsense is this, I thought with mad bravado. What fear? What shame? I am Dennis St. Michel! But even as I made plans for the appeasement of my father, the dread settled into my very marrow. Perhaps, if I told him that I intended to make an honest man of myself, to make an honest woman of Margaret, he might be lenient on the matter of Oxford. For, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a scoundrel not in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

But I knew in my breast that this would not pass. My father, Henry, Marquess of Forth and Stoke, latest of a long line of nobility stretching back to the Conquest, has never seen me as anything other than a wastrel and layabout, despite my efforts to dissuade this. Eton, Oxford, nothing is ever good enough for him. Well, to the devil with that! I shall make my own way in the world, Oxford or no Oxford.

Finally I reached my father’s most inner sanctum: the Library, a rarefied and dignified place in which I had never felt quite at home. The occasion I defaced the portrait of the King in the schoolhouse, the time I pelted Lady Margaret with soft apples, the occasion I tricked Joseph MacDonald into jumping in the cesspit; all the childhood transgressions had terminated here, with the stern, disappointing voice of my father.

Well no more! I shall accept no more the lashings of St. Michel pere! On the Continent and in the colonies, revolutions have sprung up, a new age is dawning, and my father’s ancient manners and decayed regime is dying, dying, dead. Who is to say that the coming age may not be one in which an enterprising, honest scoundrel might make off very well indeed?

My hand is on the door now. Whatever my father should harry me with, I shall endure it and prevail. It is a new era, an era for the knave and the villain and the rake. It is my era!

I open the door.

Time to meet the new regime, Father.

The Lady

2007-11-21T14:46:00.000-08:00

Having made my escape from the funerary rites of the late Master Wilson, I hurried along the muddy High Road towards Great Stokington, hoping to acquire a brandy or scotch there. The weather was most poor, an unceasing downpour that seemed to mock the very concept of solid ground as it turned every inch of the moors into a morass of mud. I cursed myself for a fool for failing to bring a horse, but that would have required first returning to Menacing House, and there I did not wish to return. The oneiric visage of that ancient pile of stone still lingers in my memory, driving me far afield, and upon my departure for Oxford I had sworn a holy oath I should not return. But perhaps the Lord Almighty has other plans.

Last night I dreamt I went to Menacing House again.

Dream-plagued and nightmare-ridden, I became lost in thought. The world became a grey-silver haze of sleeting rain. My absent-mindedness resulted in my not noticing the carriage until it was almost upon me. Cursing a round oath, I leapt aside as the great black chargers churned up the mud, their hooves skidding in the slick. The whole contraption shuddered to a stop some distance before me, the ramshackle wood and aged leather straining to contain the force of the mighty beasts that towed it. Rightly enraged, I bellowed an insult of epic proportions towards the driver. As I did so, the window-covering was delicately opened, and a high-pitched grating voice emanated from the vehicle. "John, why on earth have we stopped?"

Oh no, I thought. God no, not her.

The greatcoat-encased liveryman, his face invisible, called back, "Nearly ran down some poor bloke in 'e road, Ladyship."

"Well, flip him a farthing and let us be on our way," the coach's occupant said dismissively. I felt my hackles raise, for while I can stand to be nearly murdered in the road by a careless driver, I can't stand being patronized, particularly by her.

"Keep your damned farthing--I can't change it," I said with a snarl.

"Why you ins'lent wretch," said the driver, "D'you know whose coach this be?"

"Better than you, you knavish twice-a-day," I said. Whatever response the driver might have made was interrupted when the lady in the carriage called out, "John, what is the delay?"

At this she stuck her head out the window, if I may be so indelicate, and I saw her again. Seven years! Seven years gone and still I recognised the horse-faced bitch. The high whinnying voice, the flaming red hair the color of a carrot, the snobbishly upturned nose. My one-time playmate, the Lady Margaret.

"Dennis?" she said, her voice cracking with excitement. "John, why did not you say it was the Viscount?" She beckoned to me. "Dennis, come here a moment."

I should rather face a firing squad than speak with her, but duty obliges. I made my way through the sticky mire to her coach. "Why, Ladyship, I should have thought you'd forgotten me by now."

She tittered, hiding her mouth behind her hand, and I hid my grimace behind a polite smile. "Oh Dennis, how could I ever forget you, you dear boy! And stand up straight, you slouch like a vagabond."

Oh Lord, it begins.

She opened the door and beckoned me inside. "For heaven's sake, Dennis, come in out of the rain." I grudgingly clambered in. "You shouldn't be out in the mud and wet," she lectured. I glowered. I like the mud and wet.

"On your way back from Master Wilson's funeral, no doubt," Margaret said.

"Aye," I said, "The widow Wilson was quite distraught."

"She shall recover," said Margaret carelessly. "Husbands come and go, after all."

"Well yes, that is true, the life of a man is short," I said, and then could not help driving in the knife, "But I am surprised you recognise that, Ladyship, since...you have never married, if I am not mistaken?"

Her glare could have burned through the finest steel, but she kept her mouth blessedly shut.

I waved my hand carelessly through the air. "And you being, what, nearly twenty-two? Practically a spinster. Of course, 'tis not your fault. Men are simply intimidated by your charm, I imagine."

Margaret scowled at me, then said, "You are going back to Menacing House?"

"No, actually I was--"

"To Menacing House, John," Margaret said as she leaned out the carriage window, and I felt the horses lean into their tracings and we were off.

Damn. Menacing House after all.

The window-covering fell shut, and as it did, Margaret let out a long sigh. Suddenly she looked both much older and much younger than her twenty-one years. I felt almost sorry for her. "No one will have me," she said softly. "I am too old."

I did not know what to say to this. It was easier when she was being obnoxious. "And now," she said, "my father has died at Tournay, and I am to manage the whole duchy with only my mother to help."

"I...did not know your father had died."

"A cannonball decapitated him. It was horrid, we could not even see the body."

"My condolences. He was a good man. I liked him."

"Did you? He hated you. He called you any number of rude names."

"He didn't know the real me," I said gallantly. "Many people despise me upon first meeting, only to consider me their bosom chum a year later."

Margaret sighed. "I miss him. But at least Mother and I shall be taken care of. He has left us fifty thousand pounds a year."

I nearly hit the ceiling of the carriage, so shocked was I. Fifty thousand pounds a year?! A fortune. Ten fortunes!

"Margaret, let me apologise for those crude and impolite things I said earlier. Your driver put quite a fright into me," I said in my most sincere voice, "And had I known you suffered such a loss, of course I should have thought to hold my tongue. Please accept my apology."

Her eyes welled with tears. I carefully held her gaze, staring into those widely-set, squinty eyes, as I offered her my handkerchief. She blew her nose with a loud blatting noise. "Oh Dennis," she said weepily, "thank you so much for understanding. It has been such a trial."

"Of course, my dear. Margaret," I said hesitantly, "Would it be fine if I were to hold your hand?"

She smiled at me through her sobs. "O-of course, Dennis. Of course."

And so we held hands, sharing our grief, united in the loss of her father and the gain of fifty thousand pounds.

Things were looking up.

The Funeral

2007-11-20T21:42:00.000-08:00

Master Wilson was dead to begin with. That poor sot. Oh the hell I had given him over the years! Only his death could draw me back to Stokington, only his death could set me free of that horrid place. In my youth I had been quite the hellion, and Master Wilson, the Royal Mail Inspector and Schoolmaster, had been the poor soul I had tormented. I had considered myself a reformed man, but many a reformed character may relapse, and indeed my return to Menacing House had been under a cloud of ill-repute, for I had just been expelled from Oxford.

It was the work of that bloody bastard Hobbes, the upstart son of some third-rate clerk with no name, that I was so forcibly ejected from the hallowed grounds of Magdalen College. And for what? For dueling?! Damn them, I shall have justice. How dare they lay their hands upon a personage such as myself! And that...boy, Hobbes, with him I have unfinished business. Cal, his friends call him, as though he were a common dog. We had not even crossed swords when the porters burst in upon us. My second, the Right Honorable William Keane, fled, the cowardly wretch. Hobbes, who had not even bothered to bring a second, hurriedly tossed aside his blade, flinging it into the ferns that ring the Meadow. Being a gentleman, I held fast to my own rapier. Hobbes, a man barely more than a peasant, could perhaps be excused for treating his weapon so shamelessly, but the son of the Marquess of Stoke knows the importance of proper swordsmanship. I do not know who betrayed us that day, although I suspect the Dutchman van Pelt. He had always blamed me for the ruin of his sister, but a girl like that cannot be ruined, for she had already ruined herself.

And so I, Dennis St. Michel, Viscount of Stokington, returned to Menacing House in disgrace, only to find the hapless Master Wilson had finally returned to ashes and dust.

They buried him in the rain, which I found to be somewhat appropriate, for he had always put forth a gloomy facade. The droplets sleeted down my redingote as the Widow Wilson, called Martha to those close to her, clung to me and wept.

"Oh, young Dennis, he has gone to a better place, but what of us here and now?" she sobbed.

I hate crying women.

I made some comforting noises, and eventually fobbed her off on some of her relatives. My nerves were somewhat shaken--why can women not be more like men? One never sees men break down and weep at a funeral. I needed a brandy.

I was just making to leave when I felt a hand upon my shoulder. "Dennis, it's been too long."
I forced a smile upon my face. "Hello, Joe," I said. I could tell by his voice old Joey was drunk. Perhaps I would forgo that brandy. I turned to face him. Time had not treated him well. His cherubic face, so beautiful as a boy, had now, at nineteen, turned to a softly pink grotesquerie. His black hair was greasy and lank, and the ripe stench of the most basest spirits assaulted my nose, rising from his dandified garments.

Plus, he was as bent as an old nail.

"You're a good fellow," he slurred. "A damned fine fellow." He was getting a trifle loud, and I saw faces turned our way. Now there is a time and a place for crapulence, but the funeral of our old schoolmaster was not it. "Easy, Joe," I said, "You don't wish to do anything you shall regret."

He sighed drunkenly. "Always looking out for me. Good old Dennis." He leaned in close, his foul breath assailing my face. "You always were my favorite, you know," he said, and brushed his hand against my cheek.

"Remove your hand, you sodomite," I said very coldly, "or I shall remove it for you." Joseph MacDonald is by all means a fine fellow and one of my oldest chums, but I'll be damned if he'll pass at me in a public place.

Thankfully, salvation arrived in the very convenient form of my mother. "Dennis, I have been hunting everywhere for you," she said, charging at me like a battleship. "Word has come from Oxford--expelled?! Your father is livid with rage, I--"

"Mother, how incredibly splendid of you to arrive," I cried, nearly beside myself with jubilation. On any other day I should expect a tongue-lashing but not today! "Here you are," I said, heaving Joe off my shoulder and onto my mother's. "Of course you remember the Honourable Joseph MacDonald?"

Obligingly, Joe said, "Plzz to make yr acq'ntance, Ladyship. What a lovely dress you have," and then vomited all over a headstone. My mother stared at the reeking mess in shock as Joe clung to her.

"Must be going now Mother," I said gaily. "Have other people to talk to, you know. Have a good time with Joseph," and I quickly strode away.

Check and mate, Mother.