The Mark of the Golden Dragon

by Louis A. Meyer

  "Quite a piece of work, indeed..." I hear someone murmur.

  Chapter 40

  The other night at the Pit, after Squire Upton had been properly dispatched and I had left Mr. Peel to his many intrigues, I asked Richard, "Do you think I should go Oriental to the Duke's Ball? My saris and sarongs and all?"

  He considered, then answered, "No, I think you've already firmly established yourself as a genuine exotic, so you needn't go any further in that direction. Since this will be an extremely formal occasion, you'd best pull out all the stops, Princess. Knock 'em dead, as I know you can."

  Today, with that advice in mind, I went to my seabag and discovered that I had absolutely nothing at all to wear, don'cha know, so I sallied forth to shop for a smashing new ball gown. I figured it was my duty, after all. The Empire style is still being worn, so my new gown is high in the waist with a low-draped bodice, all white with pastel accents and the most cunning little row of lavender flowers embroidered across the top. Oh, yes! I already have Empire dresses, but they are not ball gowns. This one is extravagantly expensive and very elaborate. I figure that I deserve it, and furthermore, I didn't have to pay for it. That expense had been taken care of by the greedy but now broken Squire Upton. Richard had insisted that I should have half the table stakes from our little game of not-very-much-chance. I protested that not only was it his money at risk but also that I could have messed up or have been found out as a cheat. If that had happened, milord Allen would be out right now pawning his sword. But, of course, he would have none of it. We'll settle up the marker later. I cast eyes heavenward once again. Thank you, Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, Mississippi Gambler Extraordinaire, for teaching me the Black Art of Card Playing. Yes, yet another rotter has bitten the dust...

  "Deep breath, Miss."

  I suck it in and Higgins gives a good strong pull to the corset cords, drawing the thing tight about my waist.

  "You do not really need this," observes Higgins, tying the fasteners tight. I exhale with a sigh of relief. It is true. Ever since the late and unlamented Bliffil had broken my bottom ribs with his boot when I was but a child back on HMS Dolphin, my middle has been uncommonly narrow. I have found that to be all to the good, as I have suffered no lasting ill effects, and many are the males who have commented on the slenderness of my waist, Lord Allen being one of them.

  "True, Higgins," I say. "But why not maximize an asset, I always say."

  "Well, in that regard, thank God the larger bustle has gone out of style," he says, wrapping a sausage-shaped roll of cloth around my hips, beneath my petticoats, "and this has replaced that horrid wire contraption, in the supposed enhancement of the female bottom."

  "I think I would have looked just smashing in it, Higgins."

  "I am sure," says Higgins. "Rather like the rear part of a unicorn. There. I believe we are done. Please give my regards to Lord Byron tonight. Here, stockings now."

  "Oh, will he be there tonight?" I ask, all innocent, presenting the lower limbs for encasement in the silken hose.

  "Yes, he shall," says Higgins, snapping up the garters without much grace. "And I shall not."

  "Poor Higgins," I simper. I lean over and give him a kiss. "It is too bad that you were not born to the purple, as were all those other men."

  "Ummm..." he murmurs, putting out the ever-so-delicate pumps that will adorn the not-so-delicate Faber feet.

  "I know that many others of my sex will be in attendance tonight who were not born to that purple either," I tease. "But then, again, we have other ... ass-ets." I give my bum a bit of a wiggle on that one, along with my foxy, open-mouthed grin.

  That gets a laugh from my dear Higgins.

  "And, Higgins, I have not the slightest doubt that Mr. George Gordon will make a quick exit from that party to rejoin you for ... poetical discussions. Prose and poesy and all that. Must be awfully interesting."

  "That might well be so, Miss. We shall see," says Higgins, holding up my white Marie Antoinette hairpiece. "Let's get this on, shall we?"

  Higgins does not approve of my many wigs, but he knows I have no choice in this matter, having very little actual hair of my own upon my head.

  He settles it in and then places upon it the most beautiful little tiara I had borrowed from the treasure trove. It's silver with inlaid diamonds and, of course, my favorites, emeralds. I know I'll have to give it back when the deal is made. Chopstick Charlie does have an inventory, after all, and woe be to me if it comes up short, I know that. Although I realize that he's half a world away, I would not want to cross him. It's not too fanciful a thought to wake up some morning with Ganju Thapa standing at my bed-foot, curved sword in hand and unforgiving look upon his swarthy face. No, a strict accounting will be made of all of the treasure, Chops, you can count on that. But right now, Jacky Faber shall wear the jeweled headband.

  All done, and now I hear that Cavalry Captain Lord Richard Allen has come to call ... and I bounce up to go greet him. I do hope he likes what he sees.

  "Good Lord, Princess," he exclaims upon seeing me sashay down the gangplank in all my finery. "How do all your innards fit in there?"

  "My insides are not a proper subject for discussion, Sir," I say, giving him my hand, all prim and proper. "Shall we be off to the merry dance?"

  He laughs and hands me up into the coach, and we are, indeed, off.

  All of the men wear powdered wigs on formal occasions, of which this is certainly one, but Richard, having a good, thick head of hair of his own, merely pulls it back, has it powdered all white, then binds it with a blue ribbon. He is wearing his full-dress regimentals: rich scarlet coat with blinding white turnouts and tails, tight white hose, shiny black boots...

  Oh, my God, he's gorgeous...

  Yes, we go past all the places of my youth: Blackfriars Bridge, the Admiral Benbow, Saint Paul's, Paternoster Lane. Yet again I think of all that has happened since I scurried along these same streets as a child, wild and free. Ah, well ... things change, don't they?

  We alight from the carriage and Richard puts his left hand out, fingers pointing forward at about my shoulder height. I place my hand lightly on top of his, for that is how it is done, and we make our entrance between the lines of liveried footmen and the hundreds of glittering lanterns set out to guide our way, into Bushy House and the Duke of Clarence's magnificent Ball.

  We enter, to find a receiving line with the Duke of Clarence at the end of it, his Mrs. Jordan at his side. There are bows and smiles and much kissing of hands.

  "I am with the best-looking man here, and that's no lie," I whisper in Richard's ear as we advance down the line.

  "And I could not be with a lovelier consort, Princess," comments Richard. "However, I could use a drink."

  "Patience, dear Richard, we are almost to the end," I caution. "Ah, here's our Mr. Peel and his lovely wife." We bow and curtsy and introductions are made. Mrs. Peel is just as bubbly and charming as Peel himself is reserved. She looks positively dazzled by all this spectacle and seems supremely happy. I don't blame her, what with all the glamour: the blazing chandeliers, the chamber orchestra sawing away back in the corner, the tables set with name cards and laden with wondrous food and drink, liveried servants all about, to attend to any need. Mr. Peel has informed me that the Duke is deep in debt, and it is no wonder, I think, as I gaze upon all this. I do not feel glad about that news, but it is good to know. It might make him somewhat more receptive to our ... offerings.

  "Does not the Duke look fine tonight?" I ask of Mr. Peel, while my Richard gallantly engages Mrs. Peel in light conversation. The Duke of Clarence, dressed in full Royal Navy dress uniform, is certainly a splendid sight: navy blue jacket with tails and gold turnouts, a golden epaulet or swab on each shoulder with matching stripes on his cuffs, pure white breeches and hose, and black pumps on his feet. He wears a wide forest green satin sash across his chest—probably 'cause he's also the Duke of St. Andrews—his sword by his side, and a white wig upon his head.

  "Milord
Clarence is proud of his Naval service?" I murmur.

  "Indeed," says Mr. Peel. "He was Captain of HMS Pegasus, in Nelson's Caribbean campaign back in '86, and HMS Andromeda in '88, and the Valiant the following year, and was elevated to the rank of Vice Admiral while there. The Great Lord Nelson had only good things to say about our prince."

  "A distinguished career, indeed," I say, as we grow ever nearer our host ... and hostess. Mrs. Jordan stands by the Duke's side, looking serene and radiant.

  "True, but I'm afraid that career has hit rocky shoals since."

  "Oh...?"

  "Yes. When the war with France broke out in '93, he asked for a commission, anxious to serve his country, but was not given one."

  "Wot? They denied the King's own son a ship? How could that be?" I ask, me the commoner aghast at such a notion. "If I were King, I'd have given my son some ratty old ship, if only to shut him up."

  "Politics, my dear. The Duke made an ill-considered speech against the war in the House of Lords, and ... well ... politics. As you know, the King has not been well, and there are many anti-monarchists around."

  "Ah," I say. "Politics ... a field best left to the politicians, I suppose."

  "Spoken like a true and simple soldier," says Peel, nodding.

  "Umm..." I murmur, not committing totally to that notion.

  "Doesn't Mrs. Jordan look fine?" I ask of him.

  "Oh yes," agrees the ever practical Peel. "She is in very good shape, considering she has had a distinguished stage career and borne the Duke ten children ... all illegitimate, of course."

  "Ten?" I exclaim. "And I worry about birthing even one? When did she ever find the time?"

  He chuckles at that, then says, "Here we are ... come dear." He hands me back to Richard Allen and takes his bedazzled wife up to meet the Duke of Clarence. She shakes Mrs. Jordan's hand—and both say, "Charmed"—and then does a very acceptable curtsy in front of the Duke, one that I am certain the poor woman has been practicing over and over for the past few days. Then they pass on, relieved, I am sure, that this part of the evening is over.

  Our turn now.

  "Ha! Richard! So good to see you! And your lovely consort, too!" says the Duke, shaking Richard's hand vigorously.

  "Milord," says Richard, bowing. "Mrs. Jordan..."

  I myself drop down into my very best Lawson Peabody curtsy—and a fine thing it is to witness, too—and come up with hooded eyes.

  "My lord," I murmur. "Mrs. Jordan, so kind..."

  The Duke of Clarence gives the back of my hand a kiss and Mrs. Jordan gives me a level look. I can just imagine the pillow talk between the two. If you think for one moment, Willie, that girl is anything like what she appears, then I fear for your sanity. Then we, too, pass on.

  But before we go on by, I whisper to Mr. Peel, "Stay close now, and be attentive. Especially when the Scotch reel is announced."

  I had seen, very much gratified, that the Duke of Clarence had once again his faithful watch in his waistcoat pocket, and to it was attached the golden Roman fob I had given him. We shall see...

  Richard leads me out onto the floor, and the Minuet in G is struck up by the orchestra. Yes, the dance is very formal, all bows and curtsies and light touching of hands, but it is still enjoyable. Me? I would rather have a good country dance, with female hands clasped ardently in male ones and arms wrapped around waists and skirts spinning about flashing legs, but so be it. Enjoy what you got, girl, and don't complain. Besides, the rhythm nearly always picks up following a slow number.

  The minuet is over and, sure enough, the Scotch reel is announced. It is a dance very much like the Virginia reel I had seen—and, of course, had danced—back at Dovecote in Massachusetts. In both reels, there are two parallel lines, men on one side, ladies on the other, and when the music starts, the first pair in each line bow to each other and commence a promenade up the center. At the top, the couple separates and the next two couples repeat the same move. The purpose of the whole thing is that every single male in each line comes in contact, at least for a fleeting moment, with every single female.

  It is dances like these, I have found, that make the world go 'round. It is how glances are exchanged, alliances are made, vows sworn, and, ultimately, how babies finally get born.

  Richard and I advance down the lines, he at the bottom of one, me at the foot of the other. The band strikes up, we join hands and dance up between the lines. When we reach the end, Richard hands me off to the male at the top of that line, and he takes up the hand of the facing female, and so on down the line ... easier, I'm thinkin', in the dancing than in the explaining.

  My next partner is a nice young man and I enjoy his company for the few moments we have together, and then I am passed off to another man ... and another ... and then...

  I find myself with the Duke of Clarence. He takes my hand, we do the dance, and I am about to go to another when I see that Mr. Smollett is three more down the line...

  Good...

  I lean into the Duke, perhaps a bit too much, but then again I have been playing the Oriental exotic to the hilt, and so I am not noticed in doing this. I reach in, grab Augustus Caesar by his golden head and, ever so gently, ease the Duke of Clarence's beloved watch out of his pocket and into my hand. I was an accomplished pickpocket back in my days with the Rooster Charlie Gang and renowned in the criminal dens of Cheapside for my skill.

  We separate, I slip the watch into my sleeve and let myself into the embrace of the next male in line ... and the next ... and...

  ...and now Mr. Smollett.

  He takes up my hand and stiffly puts his hand on the small of my back, but he is not interested in me, oh, no ... His eyes roam over the crowd to see what profitable contacts he might yet make this evening.

  While he is doing that, I slip the watch into his waistcoat pocket, making sure that the golden Augustus stays on the outside, gleaming in the light of the chandeliers. It looks right good there, I'm thinking.

  I catch Mr. Peel's eye—he is farther down in the line—and give him a look that I hope conveys, Get ready—all hell's about to break loose.

  Break loose it does.

  The Duke, releasing his last partner, goes to tap his watch, as he often does, I have noticed ... and he stops dead.

  And when the Duke stops, the music grinds pathetically to a stop, as well.

  "What...? What...? What has become of my watch?" asks the befuddled royal, looking about.

  Eyes are cast about the now quite still dancers. Each looks at the others, uncomprehending.

  Peel picks it up.

  "There!" he shouts, pointing at the fob hanging out of the pocket of the unfortunate Mr. Smollett. "There it is!"

  Mr. Smollett gazes down at the damning thing, dumb founded. "Wot...? Wot...?" is all he is able to get out, his lower lip quivering, eyes wild.

  "Most irregular!" shouts the Duke, incensed. "Most irregular!"

  People are flying about, aghast at the turn of events, but the levelheaded Peel is on the spot.

  "Let us take care of this, Your Highness," he says, directing the men he had stationed about. Could it be Carr and Boyd? Yes, it is! Lay on, lads!

  Smollett is grabbed by his arms and relieved of the watch that rests most damning in his pocket. He is then hustled out without ceremony, his poor wife wailing behind him.

  Mr. Peel looks very satisfied, very gratified, indeed.

  When things quiet down and the music resumes, Richard takes my hand and leads me to a table where glasses of fine wine are arrayed. He gives me one and I place it to the lips.

  "Umm?" I ask, since his look is quite intense. "Wot?"

  "One of these days, Princess," he says, looking at me rather sternly. "You are going to find that slender little neck of yours in a noose that it won't be able to wriggle out of."

  "It is true, milord, I have always feared that the rope would be my ultimate fate, but let us not speak of that now."

  "What would you have done if that plan of yours had go
ne awry and you had been caught picking the Duke's pocket?" he persists.

  "Me? I would have done nothing except put the back of my hand to my forehead and gone into a swoon, whereupon my gallant Captain Lord Richard Allen would have scooped me up in his arms, drawn his mighty sword, waved it about, roaring out something incredibly romantic, like, 'Back you dogs, you shall not touch one hair on this fair head!' Then we would have crashed through that window there in a fine shower of crystal, mounted your fiery stallion with my frail self clutched to your chest, and pounded off into the night, on the road to even more splendid adventures."

  "Hah. Well, I am rather glad it did not come to that, Prettybottom," he says, grinning in spite of himself. "It is very possible you underestimate my good sense, and overestimate my bravery."

  "Your good common sense, maybe, Lord Dick, but your bravery...? Never!"

  I put out my lily-white hand...

  "Shall we dance?"

  Chapter 41

  "I don't know about makin' common cause with the Shankies like this," grumbles Davy. "Me, of course, bein' an upstandin' member of the King's Own Cavaliers. Worked my way up the ranks till I was Third in Command, Officer in Charge of Procurement, I was. Still got some of that old Cavalier pride, y'know."

  Pride, I say to myself. Pride in being a dirty little urchin in a dirty little street gang. Ah, well, I had a certain pride in bein' one of Charlie's bunch, I did, so I know, Davy, I know ... and old animosities do die hard.

  "Well, the Cavaliers ain't no more, Davy," I say. "And the Royal Street Rounders ain't neither, Tink, in case you were about to say you were the warlord of that mob. And what's left of the Rooster Charlie Gang is standin' right here." Joannie, dressed in her black rig, nods at that. "All what remains in the way of the old street gangs is the Shanky Boys, and we got to work with 'em. Are we ready?"

  There are murmurs of assent all around.

  We are all in my cabin, suiting up. Davy has a coil of rope around his shoulder and Tink carries a medium-sized block and tackle, a pulley, as it were. They are both dressed in as dark clothing as we could manage to put together. I am dressed in my full Oriental splendor: sari wrapped tight about me, silken shawl on head, and a light veil draped across my nose, hiding my lower face. Higgins, mercifully, is off with Lord Byron, no doubt advancing our efforts—and maybe his own, too—and so is not here to worry about me or to admonish me to be careful, which I certainly will be, anyway. I am not as rash in my actions as many people think.