The Earl and the Nightingale: Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Ella Edon

  “Is this possible?” asked Cecily to Jonathan, under her breath.

  “It is and will be if we do not act quickly. I shall get to work forthwith.” Turning to the two gentlemen, Jonathan bowed. “I thank you for your visit gentlemen and would like to assure you that the full amount will be repaid to you by February the twenty-eighth. Good day to you both.”

  He rang the bell and Mrs. Porter appeared immediately, almost as though she were eavesdropping at the door. When she appeared, she looked as though she had seen a ghost. But then, the two gentlemen were quite spectral. Both were gaunt and tall, dressed entirely in black from head to toe. Both had pinched faces and long thin noses, and both wore the pince-nez spectacles of counting house denizens.

  “What shall we do?” said Cecily.

  Mrs. Porter returned from the door, after having shown the two appalling gentlemen out. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she said to Cecily and Jonathan, both of whom were sitting in armchairs, in a state of shock.

  “Why certainly. Thank you, Mrs. Porter.”

  Instead of leaving to get the tea, Mrs. Porter stood, shifting from foot to foot. “Is there something else, Mrs. Porter?” asked Jonathan.

  “Just, well, sir. I couldn’t help hearing the news of them gentlemen.”

  “You use the term lightly, I see,” said Cecily.

  “Do not concern yourself with this, Mrs. Porter. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “No, of course not sir. I know me place. It’s only that, well, I know a man who might be of some use to you. I mean, if you are interested.”

  “That’s quite alright Mrs. Porter. Just the tea, thank you.”

  Mrs. Porter shrugged and turned to leave. Cecily leapt from her seat and caught her by the arm, as the two of them walked toward the kitchen. “What man? For what purpose?” asked Cecily.

  Then, as they both left Jonathan alone with his thoughts, Cecily said, “Listen, Mrs. Porter, we need all the help we can get. What man are you talking about?”

  “His name is Uriah Screed,” she said. “He specializes in getting people out of scrapes.”

  “Uriah Screed, eh? What sort of scrapes does he get people out of?”

  “All sorts, my Lady,” said Mrs. Porter. “Here is his address,” she added, handing her a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it. The address was in Cheapside, near St. Mary-le-Bow.

  When Cecily and Mrs. Porter returned with the tea, Cecily handed Jonathan the paper.

  He looked at it and said, “Not one of the more fashionable addresses.”

  “My Lord, do you want to get out of a scrape, or do you want to judge this man’s character by his place of business?” asked Mrs. Porter more assertive than her position should allow her.

  “Good point,” said Jonathan, rising. “I shall visit this man post haste. Did you find Nathan for me? I should like to ride there, as it is a bit of a walk.”

  “I sent Mary to look for ‘em and I think she’s returned. Give me a moment to locate ‘em, if you please.”

  “Very well,” said Jonathan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Unusual Mr. Uriah Screed

  An hour later, Nathan pulled up in front of a very dilapidated storefront, with a dirty, smeared glass in the front, and nothing displayed in the window. Painted on the glass in black lettering was “Uriah Screed, intermediary.” Jonathan looked at the storefront and jumped down from his carriage. “If you are able, stay in front of the door,” he said to Nathan.

  “Very good, my Lord,” said Nathan.

  Jonathan entered the business, and as he pushed the door open, a bell that was hanging on the back of the door began to jangle.

  “I will be there in a moment,” said a stentorian voice from somewhere in the bowels of the shop.

  “Quite alright,” said Jonathan feeling awkward.

  There was no other person that he could see in this small shop, and the dust that covered nearly everything was white and frightening-looking, as though some old woman had closed her door on her wedding day and stayed here from that day until this, fifty years hence. He half expected to see some strange old hag cackling in the corner. Many of the surfaces were covered in white cloth that made the place look as though he were moving out or moving in or had just died. Jonathan stood erect in the center of the room for fear he would be besmirched by the dust that eddied in small whirlwinds from the opening of the door. His shoes caught some of the dust, and he stamped to get rid of it.

  As he did this, the man he sought, or a virtual facsimile of what his name conjured up, stepped through the door. Uriah Screed was a huge and rotund individual with a red bulbous nose, a crushed top hat set low on his brow to obscure small, almost pink eyes. His mouth was wrapped around a large cigar that was so large, it had the appearance of some sort of tree branch lopped into a six-inch log and set ablaze. Uriah Screed had long hair that defied color definition; it was faded, and it was tired, and limp. It had almost no pigment whatsoever, although it could not be called blond, nor could it be called grey. It was, in fact, a color unto itself and hideous to behold. And yet, the whole person looked quite approachable, as he had a jovial manner about him.

  “I’m told you’re in a pickle,” he said, blowing a cloud of smoke into Jonathan’s face.

  “I suppose that is true,” he said.

  “Them bastards Braithwaite and Kerr at it again?”

  “So, you know of their handiwork.”

  “I know they’ve put many a lord into the poorhouse,” he said inhaling a massive cloud of smoke.

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s so, boyo,” he said nodding top himself. “That is so.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I have rather a predicament. You see, or do you see?”

  “I know the details of your yarn but give it to me nonetheless.”

  “Very well. You see, my father is a peer of the realm. I should say, he was a peer of the realm with a large country estate in Lincolnshire. I am his eldest son and heir, and I found out not two weeks ago that he had passed away.”

  Screed put a finger up against his temple and made the sound of a pistol. “Bang!” he said smiling wryly.

  “Quite,” said Jonathan, a trifle put off by his disinterest in being circumspect.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, after we had recovered from the shock of this event, my family coalesced and decided we should try to settle his affairs when we were accosted by these two gentlemen.”

  “They’re no gentlemen, boyo,” said Uriah Screed. “Them’s weasels. Are you familiar with the weasel?”

  “Not entirely,” said Jonathan. “Although I will warrant they haven’t a good reputation, even amongst their animal brethren.”

  Screed laughed. “You have a way with words. Ever thought of being a writer?”

  “Certainly not!” said Jonathan. “I can barely sign my name.”

  “Really? I was given to understand you was educated. Is that a lie?”

  “I am educated, but I studied mathematics and economics, and that did not train me to become a Thackeray. I assure you my penmanship is woeful.”

  “I get you,” said Screed. “You have a passion for the numbers.”

  “I do.”

  “And who is this singer?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Listen. You drop the charades and I will help you. Understand?”

  Jonathan was taken aback. This thing that Screed referred to as “charades” was the way society functioned. Innuendo, suggestion, and the like were considered politeness. Screed clearly lacked any of these skills, but he seemed kindly, and well enough disposed to Jonathan, and so he continued, trying hard to lose his natural manner.

  “I understand. She is a French singer, quite the best in the world. I was in love with her, until I understood the plain and obvious fact that she is beloved by all, and her affections must be spread around, leaving nothing for me.”

  “I hadn’t pegged you for a loser, a quitter,�
� said Screed.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.” Suddenly, and in a flash, Jonathan knew what was different about this huge bilge-pump of a man. He was American. He had the coarseness, the directness, and the flat accent of a man from the Thirteen Colonies.

  “I say, Mr. Screed - and I have to assume that is who you are, though we’ve not been introduced - are you an American?”

  “I am. Good ears!” he said. “I come from New York City,” he said. “I am actually born English, but I grew up there from the age of ten.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s why I lack these social frills you like to dance in. I just tell it like it is.”

  “I see.”

  “And I can help you, long as you tell me the truth. No bullshittin’ understand?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No withholding. It’s an expression we use across the pond.”

  “Quite. I shall refrain from shitting on your bull then,” said Jonathan. The words felt peculiar and coarse in his mouth. Nevertheless, he decided that he had found an ally, if not a friend, in Mr. Screed.

  “Go on then, boyo,” he said.

  “This singer, she was very helpful, very useful in my endeavor the other night. You see, I went to a gambling den to try to regain some of the lost fortune. Playing Pharaoh,” said Jonathan.

  “Not a wise move,” said Screed.

  “On the contrary,” said Jonathan. “I made nearly three hundred pounds.

  “Before you lost it.”

  “Well, I lost half of it, but I managed to maintain over one hundred pounds, and paid my servants.”

  “And what did the singer do?”

  “She sang most beautifully, and all the patrons and dealers listened to her and were distracted. At least she did this in the first den.”

  “But not the second?”

  “No. She was recognized there, and mobbed by her admirers, and forgot to sing.”

  “I warrant she didn’t forget. I warrant she was offended that you, of all people, were able to ignore her singing and take advantage of it.”

  Jonathan had not thought of this possibility. He must have seemed terribly coarse and thoughtless to use her so. “It was her idea.”

  “A woman who suggests that you ignore her best quality is a liar,” said Screed.”

  “Now see here!” said Jonathan.

  “Shut your trap!” quipped Screed. Jonathan realized he was doing that thing again where he relied on the rules of society to dictate his responses, and Uriah Screed did not operate within the rules of English civil society as he knew it. He recognized that he was getting a crash course in how to handle this situation, and vowed to himself that he would learn from it.

  “Well, you may be right,” he said. “But it put me at cross-purposes with her. I visited her recently and she was surrounded by admirers again, in her own drawing room, and so I cut ties with her.”

  “Then you’re a damn fool,” said Screed.

  “I beg your-”

  “Shut up!” he said again, and Jonathan complied.

  “No, I suppose you are right. I am a damned fool.”

  “Well, you go back and tell her she sings too beautifully and that you must listen to her many times in order to make yourself immune to her. Do you know the story of Odysseus and the Sirens?”

  Jonathan was surprised that this coarse man had such a profound knowledge of the Classical literature, but he had decided not to be surprised by anything about Uriah Screed anymore. This was a man to be reckoned with.

  “I do,” he said. “And I understand your point.”

  “Good boy,” said Screed. “So, you tell her you need to put wax in your ears to block her beautiful singing from your mind.”

  “I shall,” said Jonathan.

  “Good. And now, tell me about these bastards, Braithwaite and Kerr.”

  “Well, my father owes a substantial gambling debt to them. Something in the thousands, and they have given me but a month to pay it back.”

  “And what do you have left?”

  “Nary a farthing,” he said. “Save the money I earned with the help of Mlle. Monteux.”

  “The singer?”

  “Yes, the singer.”

  “Alright then, boyo. Here is the plan. How well do you play cribbage?”

  “Cribbage? I play it jolly well,” he said. “I daresay I am the finest player I know.”

  “There are better players than you, my boy, but that is good to hear.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because playing a game of chance is a mug’s game. You need to win with skill, and not rely on the Gods for your fortune. In fact, I daresay you will simply lose the remainder of your fortune unless you listen to my counsel. Have you a gold watch?”

  “I do,” he said, taking it from his pocket.

  “Give it here,” said Screed.

  Jonathan was loath to part with this timepiece that had been in the family for many years, but he handed it over, with the gold chain. “I’ll forward you one hundred pounds for this,” said Screed. “You will take this money and go to the den where you lost all the money and bet it on cribbage and let me deal with those two rascals.”

  “And what fee do you want for this service?” said Jonathan, who was suspicious of his motives.”

  “That is for you to decide. If you win your fortune back, then you pay me. If you lose it, I keep the watch. That is my wager. What I call a win-win situation for old Uriah Screed.”

  “I thank you sir,” said Jonathan turning to leave.

  “And get the singer on your side again.”

  “I cannot,” said Jonathan. “I already wrote her a letter ending our relations.”

  “Then you go back and unwrite it,” said Screed. “Either you trust me, or you don’t. But if you don’t, you do what you do best: lose your fortune and disgrace your family. I am tired of seeing that. For God sake, the whole nation called America is founded on your stupidity. Yours and the British sensibility of propriety. Lose that and gain the whole world.”

  “I shall trust in your opinion,” said Jonathan and he meant it.

  “It’s far from a sure thing,” said Screed. “But it’s the best I can offer you. I will handle Braithwaite and Kerr, and you concentrate on this gaming. Understood?”

  “Yes sir. I thank you for your wise counsel.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” said Screed, blowing a huge smoke cloud all over Jonathan, making him cough. “And get yourself some of these,” he indicated a cigar. “And learn to smoke so you have a screen.”

  “I shall,” said Jonathan.

  “I believe you can buck the tiger,” said Screed.

  “I will endeavor to do my best,” said Jonathan, opening the door and exiting.

  “Take me to a tobacconist,” said Jonathan to Nathan.

  “A what, my Lord?”

  “A vendor of tobacco. I must purchase for myself a number of cigars.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Nathan whipping the horse into a trot.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ulysses

  Hurrying back to the apartment of Mademoiselle Garance, Jonathan toyed with his new purchases. He lit and smoked a cigar, coughing and spluttering, until he was fairly green with the toxic weed.

  Nathan deposited him at the apartment in St. Martin-in-the-fields and Jonathan, feeling queasy, knocked on the front door. The butler opened it, looking him up and down. “I suppose you is here to see the French lady,” he said.

  “Yes. Please announce me,” he said. “Jonathan Anderson-Reese, Earl of Yarmouth.”

  “Yes, your Lord,” said the half-witted butler. “Only she ain’t here.”

  “I see. When do you expect her to return?”

  “She ordered her things packed, your Lord.”

  “So, she has departed?”

  “Well, her things is being packed right now, if you must know, but she is still here. She left about an hour
ago, and I don’t know her whereabouts at this moment.”

  “I see,” said Jonathan, and although he was crestfallen, he did not let the butler see his disappointment. “I shall stay until she returns.”