by Sean Russell
It was not a good choice—Erasmus did not like to be patronized. He nodded distractedly, and the woman who still held his arm pressed against him again, calling for his attention.
Barton smiled and drained his glass. “Well, mustn’t keep you from your friend,” he said, nodded to the woman on Erasmus’ arm and turned to go.
“But, Barton . . .” but Barton was gone.
The woman, pressing herself into Erasmus, leaned close to his ear and made a rather outrageous suggestion. Erasmus disentangled himself. “Ah, ‘If it were not a phantom moon, and your affections, Lady, were but true.’”
She looked at him, confused.
“Denis,” Erasmus said. “The Prince Alexander.” And seeing that this information did not help, he added: “It’s a play, my dear.”
She released him, her look of confusion not fading, and Erasmus set out into the fray. Tight little alleys opened up in the knots of people, and he pushed his way down these, awash in the scents and sounds, the colors and shapes.
He jostled someone accidentally and a rather poorly dressed young man shot him a look.
“Erasmus?” the young man said. “Farrelle’s ghost, Erasmus!”
“Samual?”
The young man put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it so loudly.” He looked truly frightened, shrinking down a little so as not to be noticed.
“Hiding from a fiancée, are you?” Erasmus smiled.
“No, nothing like that. Far worse, in fact.” Samual Hayes looked about him quickly. “I’m hiding from the law, Erasmus.”
Erasmus almost laughed, thinking it a joke—Samual Hayes in trouble with the law!—but then he realized that the young man was completely serious. “Martyr’s blood, man, what have you been up to?”
“Nothing,” Hayes said quickly. “I swear. Yet I am being pursued all the same.”
“Mr. Flattery?”
Erasmus turned to find a naval officer approaching, smiling. The navy men were always extremely amiable to him, not for anything Erasmus had done, but because a recent ancestor had been an admiral and something of a war hero. Odd how the accomplishments of one’s family seemed to somehow rub off on a man.
“Captain Adelard James. We met once at the duke’s country home. At a dinner, this two years past. . . .”
“Of course. A pleasure to see you again, Captain. You were off to Farrow, wasn’t it?”
The man looked pleased that Erasmus would remember. “That’s it exactly. Yes, we talked much about the island. Have you been back since we last spoke?”
Erasmus shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.” He turned to introduce Hayes, but the young man had disappeared. They talked for a moment about nothing much in particular, and then parted. Erasmus stood wondering what in the world Hayes had been on about.
Barton reappeared suddenly. “Finished with that little bit already?” he asked, speaking too loudly. “Well, never mind, there’s always more here, Ras. Do you know, I’ve just been told that the Countess of Chilton is in attendance? Can you believe it? I’m dying for a glimpse.” He raised a bushy eyebrow comically. “Come along, old man, and we’ll see if the rumors are true. See if a dart of pure desire strikes right to our very hearts.”
* * *
* * *
They had taken an astonishing length of time to make their way to this room, searching as they went. Hoping for a glimpse of the woman said to be the most beautiful in the known world. Barton touched Erasmus’ arm suddenly, and he turned to look in the direction his friend was staring. There was someone there, no doubt, in the middle of the press of both men and women—like a queen bee surrounded by her attendants. And the similarity seemed very apt to Erasmus. It was as though they all hovered about, rubbing antennae, caught up in a collective orgy of adoration.
He could not see the woman who was the focus of this adulation, but he could see the reactions of those around. They were transported, foolish with delight at finding themselves in the company of this woman. And it was not just the men. The women seemed hardly less affected. Erasmus felt it himself, and he still had not caught a glimpse of the countess.
“Can you see her, Barton?” Erasmus asked, for Barton was a good half a foot taller and looked over virtually everyone’s head.
“Almost,” he answered, not shifting his gaze away from the spectacle.
Suddenly someone in the throng moved to one side and Erasmus thought he caught a glimpse of a beautiful smile.
“Now, now, gentlemen. Not polite to stare. Actually, the countess has gone, and what you see there are merely the people who were so unbelievably fortunate as to actually have spoken with her.”
“Sennet,” Barton said, turning to a dapper young man who looked on in vast amusement. “Do you know Erasmus Flattery?”
“No, but certainly I know your brother, the duke. Your servant, sir. And I should add that I know you by reputation. I’m not an empiricist myself, but, even so, one cannot help but hear the name of Erasmus Flattery. Not these days.”
Erasmus never knew how to respond graciously to praise, and as usual changed the subject. “Were you serious?” Erasmus asked. “Are these merely the people who spoke with the countess?”
Sennet bobbed his head, his long, rather sharp nose performing a precise arc in the air. Erasmus thought the marquis—for this was undoubtedly the Marquis of Sennet—was the most oddly formed man. His chin seemed to have been drawn out too far, his forehead sloped back. Freckles of vastly differing sizes were scattered over his face, and yet all of this seemed to be offset by the most kindly eyes, large and filled with humor, with deep lines at their corners from much laughter, Erasmus suspected.
“Yes,” Sennet said, his amusement apparently growing. “Isn’t it wonderfully absurd? It’s really a madness. A collective madness.” His look became just a bit more serious, as though something in this disturbed him.
“I’ve never actually seen the countess myself,” Erasmus said, wondering if there was as much regret in his voice as he heard. “Is she as beautiful as everyone claims?”
Sennet tilted his head to one side. “One would have to say yes, I think. It is very odd. I actually believe there are other women in Avonel just as beautiful—perhaps even in this room—but they do not have the effect of the Countess of Chilton. It is a force of personality. . . . I don’t think I know a word to describe the effect, for she is more than enchanting.” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, you see, I am as besotted as everyone else. Though I shall not duel with others who do not declare her the most beautiful woman who has ever lived, which apparently happened this week past.”
Erasmus thought this a good thing. He seemed to remember hearing that Sennet was a formidable swordsman, and had once won a duel with the master of Avonel’s principal fencing academy. A feat that had given him something of a reputation these past three years.
“No, I make it something of a rule,” Sennet said. “Never risk your life over a woman who cannot remember your name. Sensible, don’t you think?”
Erasmus’ answer died on his lips, for he saw Samual Hayes half-hidden behind a column, trying to catch his attention.
Erasmus excused himself and made his way over to the young man.
Samual was the only son of neighbors of the Flattery family. The Hayes family were kindly if not terribly competent people, who had lost their estate not too long ago from bad investments and profligate spending. Not an uncommon story, unfortunately.
“I have to get out of here,” Hayes said as Erasmus came near. “It’s the navy men; they’re after me.” He paused, avoiding Erasmus’ eyes. “But I have no place to go.”
Erasmus reached out and took Hayes’ arm. Better to find out what went on here. He owed it to the young man’s parents. “Come along, then. You can hide at my home—at least until you’ve told me what’s happened. Don’t look so frightened, Hayes; unless you’v
e murdered the prince royal, it’s unlikely agents of the navy will try to wrest you from me without a proper warrant, and I rather doubt the officers present this evening have one in their pockets. They have other things on their minds.”
Erasmus steered Hayes toward the door, wondering if he would miss anything that evening, but then decided that he had only come out of boredom. An unhealthy reason in the first place. The rescue of a family friend seemed infinitely preferable.
Two
It was not a secret in Avonel that the Earl of Skye had a preference for a certain type of woman—petite, white-blonde, green-eyed, and young. An Entonne accent was desirable but not absolutely necessary. For a man of surpassing intellect, his tastes were hardly extraordinary.
The woman who answered the door, however, was not only a complete stranger, but she had none of the characteristics that Skye expected. In truth, he thought her a rather unusual looking woman. Not more than twenty-three, he guessed, but he had seldom seen a woman so . . . faded. Her hair, her skin, they appeared to be drained of color. The hair was red, but of such a lifeless variety. If anyone were to return from death, Skye thought they would look like this—as though part of their life had been drained away. Yet her eyes had the gleam of youth and even standing there, holding the door, he sensed a vivacity about her.
She curtsied with grace. “Lord Skye, it is an honor. Please, come in,” she said pleasantly. Whoever she was, she was no one’s maid servant.
He hesitated on the doorstep. “This is the right address?”
“You’ve come to visit Miss Finesworth?”
He nodded and she beckoned him in.
“You have me at something of a disadvantage, Miss. . . . I do not know your name.”
“I am a friend,” she said, and smiled as though she had been put up to this and found his reaction rather amusing. “Come up, sir,” she said, not offering to take his coat or cane, nor was there any servant to do so.
It was turning into something of an odd assignation, Skye thought. Where was Miss Finesworth? She had assured him the house would be empty.
At the stair head the young woman opened a door and preceded him into the room.
“What in bloody blazes!” Skye stopped abruptly. There were three naval officers slumped so limply on chairs that Skye feared they were dead.
“They are drugged,” the young woman said matter-of-factly.
Skye felt an urge to bolt, but he stood, staring, almost dumbfounded, at the scene.
“But why?” His voice came out in a whisper. “Why are they here?”
“To arrest you, I’m afraid,” she said. “You see, the young woman you were to meet, Miss Finesworth, was to pretend to be an Entonne spy who had offered her allegiance to Farrland. She would claim that you had come here to give her plans for the cannon, so that Entonne could produce naval guns of their own.” She waved a hand at the unconscious officers. “These gentlemen were then to take you away. To gaol, Lord Skye.”
“That’s . . . that’s preposterous. It’s . . .”
She crossed to a table and slid a large roll of papers across the smooth surface. “You will recognize these, I think?” she asked, releasing the ribbons that bound them. She spread them quickly open and looked over at Skye.
Not sure why, he went to look.
He let out a long breath. “My drawings of the naval gun. The Admiralty had them.”
“Yes, and sheets of specifications. Instructions for casting. Everything one would need to produce cannon.”
Skye stepped back stunned to silence. “Who are you?”
“A friend, Lord Skye. Someone who would not see you harmed.” She touched his arm gently. “You needn’t fear me. Without my intervention you would be on your way to gaol this moment. You have made an enemy, Lord Skye. A formidable and somewhat ruthless enemy. Moncrief, I assume, but perhaps you know already.”
“Moncrief!? But he is my friend! I dine with him. I . . .” He blustered into silence.
She stared at him with what appeared to be compassion. “I would be surprised to learn that Moncrief has any friends. Lord Skye. You threaten him in some way. You are a favorite of the King and have His Majesty’s ear. Perhaps too much for Moncrief’s liking.”
Skye leaned on the table. “It is unbelievable. Moncrief would not dare attack me.”
“Moncrief dared to attack Entonne, Lord Skye. What is a mere citizen to him? Even one as influential as yourself. After all, he has brought men down before. Powerful men.”
“Why have you done this?” Skye asked, stepping away from the table, eyeing this peculiar looking woman.
“You have many admirers, Lord Skye. We would not see you fall victim to . . . anyone. Trust me when I say this. We are your friends. It is best that you leave now. Tell no one you were here. Is your driver to be trusted?”
Skye nodded.
“Then you should be gone.”
Skye nodded again, turning away without further urging. He was not sure what went on here, but escaping this place seemed imperative.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to the young woman. “If this all proves to be true, Miss, I will be in your debt.”
She nodded. “So it would appear, Lord Skye. But for now . . .” She opened the door for him, and with a quick bow he went out, opening the door to the carriage himself, and sending his surprised driver on.
He slumped back in his seat, a hand over his face. Had he just escaped ruin? It didn’t seem possible. Flames, but he should not wait in Avonel to find out.
Three
Memory is fiction, a narrative we write and rewrite to explain an ever-changing present, a story in which we are the hero, the victim, the wronged or the incomparable lover. And if memory is fiction, what then is history?
—Halden: Essays
The ride to Erasmus’ home passed almost entirely in silence, as though Hayes were afraid the driver might overhear them. Erasmus thought that something dire must have happened to frighten the young man so. He looked positively haunted, and this was not helped by the fact that he was rather poorly dressed and smelled of wine—though he appeared perfectly sober.
It came out that Hayes had visited the brothel only because he’d been rescued by friends who were on their way there. They were celebrating the coming marriage of one of their circle. An odd practice, Erasmus thought. Apparently the groom-to-be had been stripped naked and tied to a woman, who was also without clothing, and they would not be released until they had performed the act before the groom’s so-called friends. All rather difficult in that they had been tied in such a way as to make consummation almost impossible. Somewhat more entertaining than anything Erasmus had seen, but then his exploration of the brothel had been cut rather short.
They arrived at Erasmus’ town home and were let in by his manservant, Stokes, who looked askance at this young vagabond Erasmus had brought home.
After Stokes had found Hayes some clothing and let him clean up, they met in Erasmus’ study on the second floor. “I will tell you, Hayes, you look like you’ve survived the war.”
“Do excuse me, Erasmus, I—I appreciate you taking me in like this.”
“Yes, well, come and sit by the fire and warm yourself.” Erasmus motioned to his servant. “Brandy would seem to be in order. And coffee. Will that answer?” he asked Hayes, who nodded.
Erasmus took the second chair. “I think you should tell me what’s happened, Hayes. There will be time for pleasantries later.”
The young man nodded, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs as though to bring some feeling into them. He stared into the fire, martialing his thoughts.
The young Samual that Erasmus remembered was barely detectable in the man seated before him. The good-natured, apple-cheeked child was gone, and in his place was someone leaner and harder. The bones of his face showed through, as though hardship had caused hi
s skeleton to expand and strengthen. This young man looked like he could stand up to some adversity, which no doubt he already had.
“I don’t need to acquaint you with my recent family history, Erasmus. Suffice it to say that, since leaving Merton, I’ve been living in . . . one of the city’s more picturesque quarters.” Hayes shook his head as though he could not quite credit his memory. “I came home this night to find my rooms had been invaded by . . . well, my neighbors claimed they were navy men. And I was pursued by others and only managed to escape by pure luck.” He looked up at Erasmus. “I really had no place to go. No friend good enough to burden with my troubles.”
“Don’t worry, Samual, you’re both safe and welcome. There are one or two advantages to having a brother who’s a duke. You haven’t any notion of why these men were in your rooms, I take it?”
Hayes shook his head. “None.”
“And you’re sure they were men from the Admiralty? You saw uniforms?”
“No, but the people in that quarter of the city have an uncanny ability to spot the representatives of the Crown no matter what their dress. If they say they were navy men, I would wager all I have they were right. Not that it would be much of a wager, I’m afraid.”
Stokes appeared just then with coffee and brandies. Erasmus wanted to reassure Hayes that his life would not always be thus, but by the time Stokes left, the moment had passed.
“Well, perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.” Erasmus stared at Hayes, who gazed fixedly down into his brandy. The silence was protracted and more than a little awkward.
