Last Gentleman Standing

by Jane Ashford

  “Everyone. Your attention, please.” Their hostess stood at the center of the crowded room, her hands raised to catch her guests’ eyes. “I have a treat for you tonight.”

  Verity knew that London hostesses competed to offer novel entertainment. Mrs. Baines’s triumphant smile suggested that she had scored some sort of coup. Verity moved closer, wondering what was coming.

  “We have a very special guest with us,” Mrs. Baines continued, candlelight glinting on her jewels. “Herr Doktor Grossmann.” She moved aside, like a magician pulling back a curtain. A plump gentleman of medium height stepped up beside her. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat and narrow trousers. Curly brown hair and a bushy beard wreathed his round face. Some here would dismiss him as foreign-looking and unfashionable, Verity thought. She found the look in his blue eyes shrewd and tolerant. He offered the crowd a crisp bow, not quite clicking his heels. “Herr Grossmann has the most fascinating system for judging character,” said their hostess.

  “Not judging, dear madam,” said the man. His voice was deep, tinged with a German accent. “I discover propensities only.”

  Puzzled murmurs suggested that others shared Verity’s uncertainty about this word.

  Mrs. Baines waved it aside. “He’s going to explain it all to us. Come along.” Beckoning, she led her guests down the room. Footmen opened a pair of sliding doors, revealing rows of gilt chairs facing a small podium.

  Dismay on a number of faces made Verity smile. Clearly they hadn’t come here for a lecture. Several young gentlemen hung back and slipped away; others appeared resigned, or resentful. Lord Randolph, on the other hand, strode eagerly to a seat near the front.

  Herr Grossmann took his place on the podium with an understanding smile and waited for the crowd to settle. When it had, he pulled a cloth from an easel at his side, exposing a large, complicated diagram.

  Randolph leaned forward. The image showed a man’s bare head in profile. All over the dome of the skull, sections were marked out and labeled with words like hope, combativeness, self-esteem, parental love, acquisitiveness, and benevolence. Too many to take in all at once.

  “This is a map we use in the practice of phrenology,” said Herr Grossmann. He picked up a wooden pointer.

  Randolph analyzed the unfamiliar word. From the Greek, it meant “study of the mind.”

  Herr Grossmann gestured with the stick. “I am sure all of us have observed that human beings have various tendencies. To be greedy, say, or proud or unusually kind. Each person possesses a different, ah, constellation of propensities. It has recently been discovered that each one of these is situated in a different area of the brain.” He tapped the pointer on the diagram. “For example, as you see here, the love of offspring is located centrally at the back of the head.”

  The crowd murmured, peering over one another’s shoulders at the diagram. Randolph leaned forward to read more of the labels.

  Herr Grossmann appeared gratified at the reaction. He moved the pointer around the pictured head. “Now, the cranium, the skull, reflects the relative sizes of these areas of the brain, revealing the potential influence of a given trait.”

  “You mean the shape of the head defines character?” Randolph asked.

  “Rather the other way about, sir,” responded the German. “The relative strength of propensities is reflected in the bone.” He tapped on the diagram again.

  “Herr Grossmann can lay bare the truth of our inner selves for all to see,” put in Mrs. Baines. She gave a delighted shiver at the idea.

  The gentleman in question frowned and shook his head. “By careful measurement and assessment, an expert can deduce a great deal about an individual’s propensities. This does not necessarily predict behavior. Each of us can control our impulses, can we not?”

  From the buzz around him, Randolph concluded that no one had really heard this caveat. “I take it that you are such an expert, Herr Grossmann,” he said. “How is the assessment made?”

  Seemingly grateful for a sign of serious interest, Grossmann spoke directly to Randolph. “The phrenologist palpates the skull, feeling for the pattern of enlargements or indentations. He can then compile a report on the person’s natural tendencies.” He raised his voice a bit to add, “Not, I must emphasize, on any absolute limitations or strengths of character.”

  “So phrenology is not destiny?” Randolph asked with a smile.

  “Precisely,” the German replied. He offered a small bow at this evidence of understanding.

  It was quite an interesting idea, Randolph thought. Up to now, the only way to study the mind had been through introspection. A rather circular process, he’d found. If there was an effective scientific alternative, that would be a step forward.

  Their hostess clapped her hands to regain the crowd’s attention. “Who will volunteer to be examined by Herr Grossmann?” She gave her guests an arch glance. “Who dares to reveal their innermost secrets?”

  The German’s objections to this phrase were lost in her guests’ response. Everyone seemed to have a comment, but no one appeared ready to volunteer.

  “I will.” The murmurs intensified as Thomas Rochford strolled forward, a wicked smile on his handsome face.

  Herr Grossmann held up his hands. “I had not planned to do an assessment here and now. This is not really a proper venue. I do not have my calipers. And I require—”

  “Oh, but you must.” Mrs. Baines gave him a glittering smile, her narrowed eyes promising vengeance if he spoiled her party. “We are all so interested.”

  Grossmann grimaced. “Well, perhaps a partial…” His deep voice trailed off under the battery of eyes focused upon him.

  Rochford stepped up beside him. “What shall I do?”

  One could hardly have arranged a greater contrast, Randolph thought. The tall, exquisitely dressed Corinthian loomed over the plump, unfashionable foreigner with his untidy beard. And yet Herr Grossmann retained a curious dignity. “We will need a chair,” he said.

  One was thrust up from the front row. The German gestured Rochford into it. He sat with careless grace.

  “I shall have to touch your head, sir.”

  Rochford nodded permission.

  Herr Grossmann stood straighter. Delicately, he placed spread fingertips on Rochford’s skull. People crowded forward to see. Randolph watched with interest as the German traced the contours of Rochford’s head, mussing his artfully arranged blond hair. The room grew silent, Rochford increasingly bland.

  “Strong predispositions to self-esteem and firmness,” Grossmann said after a while. His deep voice was clear and confident.

  You could look at the man and deduce that, Randolph thought.

  “The amative bump is pronounced.”

  A titter circulated through the room. Perhaps the German knew Rochford’s rakish reputation?

  “A deficit in mechanical ability,” Grossmann added. “Only moderately acquisitive.”

  “You have not seen me at the gaming tables, Herr Grossmann,” said Rochford. Onlookers laughed.

  The German simply continued his examination. “A decided bent toward mirth,” he said, making Randolph suspect a sly commentary. “Overbalanced by secretive tendencies and the urge toward self-preservation.”

  Randolph caught a flash of surprise on Rochford’s face, quickly masked. The man shifted out from under Grossmann’s fingers and rose. “Fascinating. But I mustn’t monopolize the Herr Doktor’s attentions.”

  Others surged forward, eager to hear about themselves. Randolph watched Rochford fade back into the crowd. He looked unsettled, which was the most interesting thing about the whole incident.

  “Please,” Grossmann protested. “I have consulting rooms in Harley Street. A much better…situation for a thorough examination.”

  No one listened. The German was engulfed in a sea of waving arms and escalating demands.
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br />   “Aren’t you going to try it?” asked a female voice at Randolph’s elbow.

  He turned to find Miss Verity Sinclair beside him. “Not just now.” He’d visit Grossmann’s premises if he decided to test out the procedure, Randolph thought.

  “Afraid?” she asked.

  Randolph gazed down at her. What was the matter with this girl? Why was she talking to him? Had she decided, for some unfathomable reason, to make a hobby of taunting him? “Discretion rather than fear,” he answered.

  She nodded as if she’d expected this response. “A timid and parochial attitude.”

  “I beg your… I don’t see you rushing up to have your character dissected.”

  Miss Sinclair shrugged. “I don’t care to call attention to my hair. Any more than usual.”

  Randolph glanced at her deep-red curls, then down into eyes the color of tropical seas. She was making no sense. She looked vivid and beguiling in white muslin.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rochford?” she went on, with a glint in those extraordinary eyes. “He was quite courageous.”

  Randolph experienced a surge of irritation quite out of proportion to the inquiry. He practically bit off his reply. “No.”

  “That’s right, you live buried in the country. I don’t suppose you know many interesting people.”

  For perhaps the first time in his life, Randolph was struck speechless. It wasn’t due to a lack of arguments. In fact, words crowded forward so thickly that they immobilized his tongue. Not know interesting people? His parents epitomized that phrase. His brother Robert set fashions. Sebastian was a convivial favorite of the haut ton. With these and other family connections, Randolph knew, or knew of, everyone who was anyone. Which did not include Miss Verity Sinclair.

  He glared at her. She gazed back with the oddest look. Confused? Frightened? Her expression was at odds with her impertinent remark. Randolph puzzled over this, and realized that the pause had saved him from sounding like a perfect coxcomb. A coldly courteous bow would be much more effective. He offered her one. “Excuse me,” he said, and walked away.

  Randolph left the knot of people still besieging Herr Grossmann, paying little attention to where he was going. Near the doorway, his mother caught up with him. “Randolph, there’s a young lady here I think you would like. Come and I’ll introduce you.”

  “Not just now, Mama.”

  She raised her eyebrows at his sharp tone. Randolph didn’t blame her. She was doing as he’d asked, and he’d practically snapped at her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He’d simply had enough conversation for now.

  “Was that Miss Sinclair you were talking with?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “What would you call it?” the duchess asked, with an inquisitive tilt of her head.

  Randolph gathered his faculties. “I beg your pardon, Mama. I’m just…thirsty. I need a glass of wine. Would you like something?”

  She shook her head, releasing him with a wave of her hand. As he walked away, Randolph thought he heard her murmur, “Thirsty? Is that the term for it these days?”

  Three

  The following morning, Verity finally had the chance to make her expedition. Her mother was occupied with some important letters and wouldn’t notice a short absence. Indeed, she was so engrossed that she didn’t even acknowledge Verity’s departure from their rented drawing room. The landlady, always interested in their doings, was out. Verity knew how the hackney coaches worked, and she had money. She was aware that young ladies didn’t customarily wander about London without a maid or footman, but as she had neither, she’d have to do without. Such a small thing couldn’t intimidate her. Wearing her most severely cut pelisse and plainest bonnet, she set out.

  It wasn’t difficult to find a cab. She flagged one down and climbed in, giving the address with an anticipatory thrill.

  “Are you sure about that, miss?” the driver said. “It’s down amongst the clubs.”

  “Quite sure,” she replied.

  He slapped the reins, and they moved off. Two turns later, the hack was driving down a busy street clogged with vehicles and riders. The clop of so many hooves was very loud. At the sides, hawkers cried their wares and tried to thrust products upon pedestrians who pushed along in both directions. There was a smell of fish and horses and drains. Verity stared out at the frenetic scene. It was probably like this in the marvelous bazaars of the East, she decided, only more so. She gathered all her sensations together and recorded them in her customary way, adding this moment to her collection. One became used to the clamor, no doubt. After a few days, one wouldn’t feel assaulted by it at all.

  The driver maneuvered past a large construction works. The pounding of hammers and shouts of the workers added to the noise. “Piccadilly Circus, that’s to be,” the driver called down. “If they ever finish, and stop blocking the road.”

  Beyond was a wide gracious avenue, a little less crowded, with large stone buildings on either side. The driver turned down it and pulled up before an imposing gray edifice. “Here you are, miss,” he said.

  Heart thudding, Verity paid her fare and got down at Twelve Waterloo Place. Great arched windows on the ground floor looked back at her. Above, a pillared portico loomed. The door stood under a round window with an ornately carved surround.

  The cab clattered off. Verity gathered her resolve and went inside.

  She was greeted—or rather halted—in the entry by a liveried man with grizzled hair and a sour expression. “You must have the wrong address, miss.”

  “Isn’t this Twelve Waterloo Place?” She said it aloud, as she’d said it to herself since she read the news.

  “Yes, miss.” The man glowered at her.

  “The Travellers Club?”

  “Yes, miss, but—”

  “I understand there are lectures planned, by those who have explored the…the far reaches of the globe. I hoped to obtain a schedule.”

  “No ladies are allowed inside,” he replied. “Particularly young ladies.”

  “Not even for the talks?”

  “Never, miss.”

  “Are you sure?” He was only a servant after all, not a member of the newly established club.

  “Heard Lord Aberdeen say so” was the smug reply.

  This was a setback. Verity had looked forward to the travelers’ tales, as well as the chance to meet a kindred spirit. “Perhaps I could leave a note—”

  The guardian frowned. “This is a gentlemen’s club, not a post office.”

  Verity peered past him to the inner doors. She’d read about the club’s recent establishment “for gentlemen who had traveled out of the British Isles to a distance of at least five hundred miles from London in a direct line.” Foreign visitors and diplomats posted to London were also invited. Lord Castlereagh was one of the founders, along with the Earl of Aberdeen and Lord Auckland, whose name graced a town on the other side of the world. These men had chosen the head of Ulysses as their device. Verity knew that his epic voyage was fictional, the marvels he’d seen unreal, but the choice had fired her imagination. She’d so often dreamed of sailing to unknown shores.

  “I’ve read all of Cook’s journals,” she tried. “I’m an admirer of Alexander von Humboldt. I know a great deal about—”

  “No ladies,” the door ward interrupted, hostilely uninterested. “Particularly not the sort looking to write to gentlemen they don’t know. You’ll have to get out now.” His expression was stiff and closed.

  Verity gritted her teeth and turned away. Clearly, this fellow was no use. He knew nothing but orders. And insults; those seemed to come easily to him.

  Outside, she considered loitering by the entrance and trying to speak to a member going in or out. Immediately, she rejected the idea. She wasn’t some feeble petitioner. She wasn’t goin
g to be brushed off in the street. She’d have to find another way to meet the sort of man she wanted. Why must they make it so difficult?

  Angry, she turned right and strode off. She wanted to dissipate some of her irritation before she found another cab, and movement generally made her feel better. That was the point of life, wasn’t it? To move, to act. Not to sit with folded hands waiting for what came.

  Randolph lengthened his stride and drew in a deep breath. He’d had a fine early match at Angelo’s, learning a cunning new form of riposte from the fencing master. Invigorated, he’d taken a turn through St. James Square and down to Pall Mall. Now, as he headed for home, he felt splendid. Until, that is, he saw a familiar figure rushing toward him. What the deuce was she doing in this part of town? She could have no business here. But there was no avoiding the girl, even though she didn’t seem to see him. He raised his hat. Did she always look annoyed? “Miss Sinclair,” he said.

  She stopped and looked up at him with a last-straw sort of expression. “You,” she said.

  Randolph felt the same. He would have walked on, but she must have lost her way to be in this neighborhood, seemingly alone. “Are you on your own?”

  “Yes, I am. And you needn’t tell me it isn’t the thing. I know! And I’m not in the mood.” She turned to leave.

  He’d had quite enough of Miss Verity Sinclair, but still he had to say, “You shouldn’t go that way.”

  “I beg your pardon?” was the icy response.

  “That’s Pall Mall.” Randolph pointed down the hill.

  “And so?”

  “No respectable lady walks down Pall Mall.”

  She was the picture of exasperation. “Are you saying I can’t even walk down a wretched street?”

  “I’m not the one who says—”

  “Whyever not?” she interrupted.