4. Gripped By Opium
Gripped By Opium
Through narrow streets of Europe’s picturesque towns and the sun-drenched vistas of its countryside, Lord Alexander Sinclair and Benedict Thomas roamed southward in pursuit of the classics. More often though, indulging in the myriad distractions the Continent offered.
Benedict, ever the jovial companion, treated his friend to lavish banquets and enticed him to gambling tables where his skill in winning was equaled only by his eagerness to outdo his opponents. Lord Sinclair considered his luck a foregone conclusion and thus played in a cavalier fashion.
Young, foolish men, eager to test their luck against the infamous Lord Sinclair, were soon outmatched.
With a flick of his wrist and a charming smile, Alex relieved them of their purse, leaving them to nurse their bruised egos and empty pockets.
It was all a lark to him, a mere diversion before he moved on to conquer the next town.
Yet for all the glittering diversions, Alex remained a man haunted.
Even a year spent in such carefree abandon could not drown the sting of Lucinda’s refusal or quell the bitter grip of remorse—the aftertaste of his ill-timed kiss lingering like a shadow, a reminder that not all victories were won at the gaming table.
He oft wished his successive wins would outweigh the memory of that terrible afternoon, but they never did.
As their grand tour approached its conclusion, memories of Lucinda lingered in his mind, and the prospect of returning to England loomed dauntingly across the North Sea.
For Benedict, it stirred lively anticipation; for Alex, it was anything but simple.
Their last stop, Brussels, nestled in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, seemed an unlikely place for Alex to linger.
Yet, to Benedict’s chagrin, Alex welcomed the city as one might an old and cherished friend.
“You intend to remain?” Benedict exclaimed, aghast, as Alex proffered yet another week’s rent to their landlady. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sudden fondness for Belgian weather, or is it the people?”
“Both are overrated,” Alex replied indifferently. “But Brussels has a certain charm, Benedict.”
“Charm!” Benedict scoffed. “The streets are perpetually sodden, the beer is but lukewarm, and the locals persist in conversing in Dutch, fully aware that you are unacquainted with the tongue.”
“Likely it’s the beer,” Alex jested, then turned serious. “Or perhaps I’m in no rush to return to recrimination back home.”
“Of course!” Benedict retorted, “The allure of avoiding responsibility. Very noble.”
Alex shot him a dark look.
Benedict sighed and raised his mug. “To Brussels, then. May its charms distract you from acting like a sensible man.”
“To Brussels,” Alex agreed, “may it protect me from the inevitable reckoning.”
The following day, Benedict boarded the packet from Calais, leaving Alex behind. The winds favored the captain’s course, and by evening, he found himself once more upon English soil—returning to the obligations that Alex so ardently sought to evade.
Meanwhile, in Brussels, Alex lingered. Days stretched into weeks, and still, he remained in its gray streets and unfamiliar voices. Yet, perchance, that was precisely the intent.
For three months, Alex enjoyed the high-stakes world of Brussels gaming circles without Benedict’s company.
He had established himself as a formidable player in Deep Basset, his cool-headedness earning him substantial victories that filled his pockets with handsome winnings.
He kept to his simple lodgings, ate sporadically when he remembered, and continued to don his weather-worn traveling attire.
Thus his winnings accrued unspent, but never amassed to unburden him of an unacknowledged guilt.
In the serene gaming room of a gentleman’s club, Alex sat back in his chair, one February night, composed and detached.
The cards he held were certain to win without much effort.
He listened to the surrounding hum—the rhythmic shuffle of the deck, the clink of coins, the undercurrent of hushed conversations.
Across from him, Archduke René Rainier was a picture of tranquility, his gaze focused on his cards.
“That’s a bold move, Sinclair,” René remarked as Alex pushed forward his wager. “I wonder if fortune will smile upon you tonight.”
“Indeed, your Grace, it appears she finds my company more agreeable than most.”
René chuckled. “As ever, you place great faith in the lady.”
“She has yet to disappoint me.”
They had shared many such evenings of late, their acquaintance forged over the green baize of the gaming table.
Here, in this world of cards and wagers, they were comrades, if not quite friends.
There were few men Alex counted as such, and fewer still who knew him beyond the confines of the clubs he frequented.
He eschewed the grand balls of Brussels society, and shunned the frivolities that so captivated the aristocracy.
If one sought him outside the gaming hells they would search in vain.
Yet he liked René. The Archduke possessed an easy, affable manner, a sharp mind, and a gift for conversation that made their hours at the table pass swiftly.
There was no pretense between them, no tedious expectations or obligations, only the mutual appreciation of a well-played hand and an unspoken understanding.
In some ways, the Archduke reminded Alex of the Admiral.
Different men, to be sure, but something in their temperaments was the same.
Perhaps it was his quiet steadiness, or his ability to know how far to push before retreating.
There was a comfort in this predictable companionship bound within the walls of the club.
He sometimes wondered if René considered their acquaintance in the same way. The Archduke had a family, a place in society that Alex had no wish to intrude upon. If René found it odd that their connection existed only within these walls, he never spoke of it. That suited Alex well enough.
The shuffle of cards and murmur of wagers continued around them, but the moment was disrupted by a sharp sound—a scuffle, sudden and jarring against the muted civility of this sanctum.
Heads turned toward the source of the disturbance, and Alex straightened, catching sight of a disheveled young man being manhandled by two liveried attendants near the far corner.
The man’s wild gestures and slurred demands drew murmurs of disdain and curiosity from the assembled company.
René’s expression darkened. “ Mon Dieu ,” he muttered, his calm demeanor vanishing in an instant as he rose to his feet. “ C’est Louis !”
“Louis?” Alex echoed, watching as the Archduke discarded his cards and rose from his chair.
“My son-in-law,” René explained grimly, his voice tight with concern. He strode forward, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Alex followed.
The young man, Louis van Rijn, was proving a handful for the attendants, thrashing and shouting incoherently as they struggled to maintain their grip.
René approached with an air of authority. “Gentlemen, release him,” René ordered. “You are not to treat him as a common rabble-rouser.”
One of the footmen hesitated. “Your Grace, he’s causing quite the commotion.”
“I am aware,” said Rene sternly. “But I will not have him manhandled. Release him. Now.”
The men reluctantly complied, and Louis staggered forward, his unkempt hair falling into his eyes. René caught him by the arm, steadying him with a gentleness that contrasted the younger man’s belligerent demeanor.
Alex surveyed the scene, his practical instincts asserting themselves. “Your Grace, may I suggest sending for the authorities? He cannot remain here in such a state, and it would be best if he were…” he paused, weighing his words, “…placed in custody.”
René turned to Alex. “You suggest I hand my son-in-law over to the authorities, Sinclair? Would you do the same if it were your family?”
Alex hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “He is a danger to himself and others. Can you claim there is any other course that would not end in greater ruin?”
“Louis is not just the husband of my daughter, he is the son I never had, the father of my grandson, he is family. I cannot abandon him in his hour of need. Help me will you, Sinclair, I must get him home.”
Alex frowned, his father’s ingrained sense of propriety clashing with an unforeseen pang of sympathy. At last, he sighed. “Very well. Where is his home?”
“My daughter and son-in-law, live with us on Rue Royale , but if we can get him into a carriage the distance will be nothing.”
It was no simple task wrangling Louis into his Grace’s carriage.
His incoherent mutterings and sporadic attempts to resist made the journey an exercise in patience, though René bore it all with remarkable composure and soothing words.
Alex, however, found his patience sorely tested and started to question the wisdom of his involvement.
When they arrived at the Rainier residence on Rue Royale , the household sprang into action with practiced efficiency.
Servants hurried to prepare remedies, towels, and basins.
A stately woman descended the staircase with an air of calm authority through the bustle.
This, Alex surmised, was the Archduchess Rainier.
“René,” she said, her pitiful gaze regarding Louis. “How bad is it this time?”
“Bad enough, my dear,” René admitted. “But we will see him through, as always.”
Her Grace remained calm, instructing Alex and a footman to place Louis in a nearby room. Once they had laid Louis’ limp form on a sofa, Alex stepped back, leaving the crowd bustling around the patient to their tasks.
A young woman appeared in the doorway, her face drained of color. “Oh, Louis!” She moved swiftly to the chaise lounge, sinking to her knees with skirts billowing like falling petals. “What fresh madness have you visited upon yourself this time?”