16. EXCERPT
April 1826
Gentlemen”s Private Apartments in Albany
London
”We”re buggered.” Leo Atherton tossed back the last of his breakfast brandy and turned from the sideboard to face his three oldest friends. ”I mean no offense, CB.”
”And I take none,” his friend replied from his customary place in the horsehair chair before the fire. ”However, perhaps you could elaborate on why and the precise nature of our...buggerment?” He raised his arms to allow Prinny, Leo”s portly orange tomcat to settle onto his lap.
”Good word,” Sythe said. He”d managed to take up over three-quarters of the settee, which left poor Col, the fourth member of their band of reprobates, sprawled precariously half on the settee and half on the threadbare three-legged ottoman.
”Thank you.” CB raised his own glass of brandy in salute before he took another measured sip of the second-best brandy on the battered sideboard. When the devil had they all managed to raid his meager liquor stores? They”d only arrived mere moments ago. In the blink of an eye, they”d burst into his rooms in full cry, raided his brandy decanter, and draped themselves over his sparse furnishings like last night”s evening clothes.
”You”re looking not quite the thing, Ath. Is something amiss?” Col pushed at Sythe to no avail. He dropped his now empty glass to the thick rag rug beneath his feet and tried to adjust his position across two pieces of furniture whilst working not to dislodge Nelson, the one-eyed tabby perched on the edge of the ottoman.
”Something had better be amiss.” Sythe rummaged around in the detritus on the tea table and came up with a lemon biscuit. ”He”s summoned us here at eight in the morning, ungodly hour for a gentleman.” He shuddered dramatically and with no attempt at the subtlety with which he performed in the courtroom. Stephen Forsythe, Esquire, was one of London”s foremost barristers and wielded drama the way DaVinci wielded a paintbrush.
”Especially a gentleman who has spent most of the night entertaining a duke”s lonely widow.” CB”s comment was a rude reminder as to why Ath had called them together.
”Is that what we”re calling it now? Entertaining?” Col addressed his comment to CB, but his eyes never left Ath”s face. His life as a bloody Bow Street Runner made Archer Colwyn too clever by half when it came to reading another”s expression.
”Well,” CB said. ”Entertaining is more genteel than fucking like a pair of rabbits.” Lionel Carrington-Bowles whom they all called CB because as Col so succinctly put it--Being heir to a bloody fortune doesn”t mean I must take all day to call your name--had a gift for the elegant use of the English language, most of it obscene and not fit for any but the lowest of company. In other words, the four of them.
I need more time, dammit. More time to slow the thundering beat of his heart. More time to calm the ever-increasing panic he”d been fighting since he”d realized precisely how much trouble they were in. Less than two hours past. He turned back to the decanter and sloshed another portion of brandy into his glass. After downing the amber elixir in one draught, he faced the room and leaned against the sideboard for support.
”Dammit, Ath, when are you going to obtain some decent furnishings for these rooms? You”re living in Albany, not a Seven Dials flophouse.” Col launched an attack on Sythe”s hip with his fist.
”Ouch! Prinny”s bollocks, Col. That”s my arse you”re punching.”
”Now children,” CB started. ”Remember, we are gentlemen.”
”Bugger you,” Col said amiably.
”Sorry, love, but you”re not my type. And I know where that cock has been, thank you very much.” CB threw a leg over the arm of his chair and slouched to one side in order to dodge the lemon biscuit Col tossed at him. Prinny settled onto CB”s other leg like a sphinx, eyes closed against the mayhem that habitually accompanied the arrival of Leo”s friends.
”I wanted that biscuit.” Sythe said. ”Not as much as I want Ath to purchase a decent settee, but--”
”Our journal is gone.”
Not the most deft handling of the announcement, but it had the virtue of ending all laughter and awarding him the room”s undivided attention. Silence was not their natural state, and it would not last, but the pause gave him time to restate the terrifying truth he”d learned only this morning. ”Our journal. Is gone.”
His friends came to their feet as one and turned toward the other side of the room where the life-sized statue of Aphrodite stood behind an ornately carved mahogany music stand, an empty music stand. Disgruntled cats scattered as the three men crashed through his sitting room like a herd of young bulls and upended furniture on the way. He watched as CB rocked the stand back and forth. Sythe lifted the stand and Col actually looked underneath. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have laughed. When the three of them began to rummage through his desk in the corner and ransack the bookcases along the wall he”d had enough.
”It isn”t here,” he said over the din.
”Are you saying,” Sythe said as he dropped a book to the floor and prowled towards him. ”The journal in which we have recorded our sexual adventures for over a dozen or more years--”
”Naming names--” Col continued.
”And writing out intimate details,” CB added. ”Is gone? As in lost? Absconded with?”
”That is precisely what I am saying.” he ran his hand through his hair. ”I sent Cheddars to Hatchards with the latest box of books from my mother.”
They all nodded in brief commiseration. His mother”s proclivity for sending improving books every month from the library of the man he”d always believed to be his father had yet to improve him in the way she hoped, but their sale had improved his finances.
”What has that got to do with--” Sythe went white as a virgin”s come out dress. He staggered around the settee and dropped like a rock onto one end whilst Col stumbled onto the other. CB appeared ready to swoon. He collapsed into the chair behind the desk and scattered papers, books, and sketches from the desk onto the floor.
”Dear God, man, you don”t mean...” CB simply stared at him, speechless. A near impossibility until now.
”Our journal is in the hands of the most frequented bookshop in London?” Col dropped his head into his hands. ”I”m going to be sick.”
”How the devil did our journal end up at Hatchards?” Sythe used his imperious barrister tone, the one that had other barristers shaking in their boots.
Ath simply rolled his eyes.
”I”ll tell you how,” Col said as he raised his head and stared daggers at him. ”Cheddars. That doddering old fool--”
”Leave off, Cheddars. This isn”t his fault.” Ath massaged the back of his neck. Didn”t help. His head had begun to pound in rhythm with his heart. ”The journal was on the floor next to the box of books. He assumed I intended it for the bookseller with the others.”
”That book has sat on that stand in that exact spot since you took these rooms after we finished at Cambridge. Cheddars has seen it there every damned day.” Sythe stood and began to pace the room.
”You”re assuming Cheddars can see. The man is three days older than God, for Christ”s sake.” CB, his color a bit better, leaned forward and ran his hands up and down his thighs.
”It isn”t Cheddars”s fault,” he almost shouted. Save for the three men in this room, Cheddars was the only person in the world who gave a damn for him. He”d been a part of his life since the day Ath was born and had served as his valet for more than half of the twenty-eight years since. Before that Cheddars had been his grandfather”s valet. Grandfather. Not a subject for today”s thoughts.
”Not his fault? Your ancient retainer has made a mistake set to land us all in every scandal rag in England. Whose fault is it precisely?” CB asked.
”The scandal rags are the least of our worries. There is enough in that book to land us all in crim-con court for years.” Sythe glanced at CB. ”Or worse.”
”This is a disaster,” Col muttered. ”A complete and utter disaster.”
”More lives than ours will be ruined should that book land in the wrong hands.” CB looked up at Ath. ”How long has it been missing?”
”He visited Hatchards just before closing yesterday. I noticed the book was gone when I arrived home this morning. Cheddars went out to try and retrieve the book. I sent for you the moment Cheddars returned from Hatchards.”
”He”s already been to Hatchards at this time of day?” Col sat up and rested his head against the back of the settee.
”Not everyone lays abed until noon, Col.” CB caught the cushion Col flung at him and tucked it behind him in the desk chair.
”Who gives a damn about the time? Did your valet fetch the book back?” Trust Sythe to cut to the heart of the matter.
He had let them carry on because in all their lives together bickering and accusing was how the four of them generally worked through whatever trouble their antics landed them in. Their current trouble would require far more than bickering and accusing.
Time to deliver the bad news. ”Not exactly.”
Once more he had their undivided attention.
”Which means?” CB gave him a look which indicated anticipation of the worst.
”Which means no.” Col slumped over the arm of the settee. Ath couldn”t blame him. The man had a stellar reputation as a Runner. The contents of their little journal might well end his career.
”Not exactly.”
”On my oath, Ath, if you say that one more time, I shall kick you in the bollocks, drown you in your own chamber pot, and wait until dark to drag you down the back staircase and throw your carcass in the Thames.” Sythe glared at him, unblinking.
There was nothing for it. He”d have to tell them everything and hope Col and CB did not join Sythe in enacting the retribution the barrister had just described.
”Where is Cheddars? Let”s have the explanation from--”
”No. You will not subject my valet to your inquisition, Barrister. He”s napping at the moment. He”s had an upsetting morning.”
”He”s had an upsetting morning?”
”Stop squawking like a fishmonger, Col. For God”s sake, Ath, get to the damned point.” CB appeared to be at the end of his tether. He wasn”t the only one.
He took a deep breath. ”The journal is no longer there. The book buyer found the contents too filthy to be sold at Hatchards.” The four of them shared a brief and somewhat juvenile grin. Probably their last one once he told them the rest. ”The pontificating old prude told Cheddars he sold the journal to a shop in Holywell Street. Cheddars traced the sale to Whitcombe”s.”
”Whitcombe”s? The Duke of Chelmsford”s brother, Whitcombe? He”s the leading purveyor of filth in London.” Sythe subsided onto the end of the settee once more.
CB strolled to the sideboard and filled four glasses with brandy. He handed each of them a glass and lowered himself back into the horsehair chair. ”Then the journal landed in the right place, didn”t it? Do continue, Ath. There”s more, isn”t there? And it”s worse, or you wouldn”t be standing there staring at your brandy instead of drinking it.”
Ath gazed at the libation a moment longer and then took a long sip. ”According to Cheddars, Whitcombe divided the journal into four parts. Mine and CB”s parts of the journal have already been loaned out to subscribers. Yours, Sythe, and Col”s have been sold into the private library of a certain lady.”
”What?”
”Shite!”
”Bloody hell.”
Best to press on, especially as he had a plan, of sorts. ”We have to fetch them back.”
”Fetch them back?” Col”s incredulity was unmistakable.
”CB and I will persuade Whitcombe to give us the names of the subscribers, and we will find a way to relieve them of our parts of the journal.”
”Steal,” CB said after he finished off his brandy. ”By any means necessary.”
”I didn”t hear that,” Sythe said.
”I”ll tell you what I didn”t hear,” Col said once he”d unfolded himself from the arm of the settee. ”I didn”t hear in which certain lady”s library our parts now reside.”
”Not your best parts, I hope.” CB apparently could not stop himself from digging at Col even in the face of imminent disaster. Just as Col could not resist hurling a stray book at their friend”s head.
”They are in the private library at Goodrum”s.” Ath rattled the words off so quickly he wasn”t sure they understood. Then he studied their faces. Oh yes, they understood. The fire in the hearth hissed and creaked. Somewhere on the floor below them a door slammed. Col kicked the glass he”d dropped earlier and watched it roll off the rug and across the bare polished floor.
”Goodrum”s on Duke Street,” Col finally said. ”The private club. You expect us to invade the most exclusive club in London and steal--”
”To reacquire,” CB suggested.
Sythe downed his own brandy and then took a startled Col”s and made quick work of it as well. ”Goodrum”s. As in Captain Eleanor Goodrum, the Pirate Queen of Algiers.” He stood, walked to the sideboard and picked up the bottle of Ath”s best brandy. ”Gentlemen,” he said after which he unstoppered the bottle and took a long swig. ”We”re not buggered. We”re dead.”