Gentlemen Prefer Scandal - Chapter 3

Saturday, November 29, 1823

 

George Haddonfield believed my life to be undeserving of poetry.

I can imagine the look on his face when he finds I’ve become a character in a novel. I, the great Nathaniel Fletcher, London’s most brilliant sleuth-hound and handsome rogue. I do not cower at danger—danger cowers at me. I uncover clues and pursue justice, all with the help of my trusted sidekick, Rupert Wynn.

If anyone (especially George) happens to ask, that is how this story goes. But the truth is I am not daring, I am not brilliant, and I am not a rogue. I am handsome, of course. Frustratingly so to the London mothers in search of a husband for their eligible daughters. But overall my talents lie in making quiet conversation, hosting intimate luncheons, and pretending to paint. I am a decent dancer and a loyal lover. I am well-mannered, well-read, and well-bred.

Rupert, on the other hand, is as roguish as it gets. He called for me—I have no idea how he found my address—and brought me to a new song and supper room without so much as an explanation. And at said song and supper club, Rupert was making eyes with several men…but I’ll get to that in a moment. He is clever, and irritating, and wild, and daring. He is the kind of man a person could write poetry about.

But I am not a poet. I am a simple gentleman who has been swept by the tide of adventure into an ocean of mystery, intrigue, and crime.

But I suppose I ought to start at the beginning. Lord Percival Glyde—or whoever is pretending to be Lord Percival Glyde—is the most boring man I’ve ever met.

I sat beside him at Barrett’s two nights ago for three hours straight. In that entire time, I don’t think he said more than a few dozen words, and most of those were banal pleasantries. He seems primarily to communicate via grunts and solemn nods and ponderous silences.

In sum, as I explained to Rupert later that night while we wandered the grimy streets of Covent Garden together, talking to Lord Percival Glyde directly wouldn’t get us anywhere.

‘Can you imagine him on the witness stand?’ Rupert scrunched his face in parody of a magistrate and said with mock solemnity, ‘Lord Percival, how did you decamp the desert isle upon which you were fifteen years confined?’ Then he furrowed his brows in remarkable imitation of Lord Percival and grunted like a wild hog.

I laughed so hard that I stumbled into a pile of refuse and nearly fell headlong into another, but Rupert steadied me with a firm hand on my arm. Even so, the smell made my eyes water.

‘Why’d you ask to meet me here anyway?’ I said, trying to clean my boot as best I could by stomping on the cobblestone. ‘Are you worried about eavesdroppers in Mayfair?’

Rupert eyed me warily. ‘I live here.’ He gestured ahead. ‘The theatre is two blocks on.’

I didn’t know what to say.

We walked in silence for several minutes.

‘He fired the whole staff at Glyde Manor,’ Rupert said finally. ‘Maids and valets and housekeepers that had worked for the old baron their whole lives, sent away with nothing. Not even references.’ His voice was raw and bitter. ‘I think he was worried that they’d out him as a fraud.’

‘That isn’t fair,’ I said, stepping carefully over a dirty bundle of cloth lying haphazardly on the street. A man, I realised with a shudder, sleeping outside in the cold.

‘So much of our world isn’t fair,’ Rupert said quietly. ‘But I can do something about this. I have to do something about this.’

I reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

‘We’ll get to the bottom of this,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

***

The next morning, I pored over old newspaper accounts of the trial, looking for something—anything—to direct our inquiry. It was hopeless—I must have read close to a hundred articles, but each only recapitulated the same handful of facts and rumours I already knew. At noon I broke for lunch with nothing at all of use, no new ideas to help my new friend.

I supposed that’s what we were, at least—friends. I couldn’t think of a better word to describe him. I also couldn’t stop thinking about him.

As I picked idly at the sandwich tray Susan had brought out, I peeked at the gossip column in the Morning Herald…and found immediately what I’d been looking for all morning:

Bleary-eyed on the bench? Sir Ian Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate who recently oversaw the curious case of a certain shipwrecked B—, has been seen several consecutive nights dipping deep at Bowman’s Song and Supper.

It wasn’t much, but it was all we had.

I wrote to Rupert right away: I hope you don’t have dinner plans…

This is how I had imagined the evening might unfold: we would find the magistrate straight away, force a full confession, split a bottle of brandy, and be home by early evening.

I was right about the brandy, at least.

By the time Rupert and I arrived at Bowman’s Song and Supper, the dining hall was so chock-a-block we had to stand in the shadowy fringes. We were nearly atop each other, pressed in on all sides by the genial throng of gentlemen and commoners, merchants and farmers and university students.

A young man with long, sandy hair sat alone in the centre of the room and sang of romance, his voice high and gentle and lovely. I felt the warmth of Rupert’s chest against my back, the soft patter of his heart. When I turned toward him, I could smell the scent he wore—citrus and cinnamon and cedar. I looked into his eyes, level with mine and gold in the candlelight.

And then the man beside me spilled his drink down the front of my jacket, and the singing man began a particularly crude pub song about a young lass and a miller and all the ‘grinding’ they got up to, and I realised—looking around at the enormous crowd—that we had absolutely no idea what the magistrate looked like.

Rupert was undeterred.

He whispered his utterly absurd plan into my ear and pushed his way across the hall, just as the pub song came to a bawdy conclusion. ‘That can’t possibly work—’ I called after him, but my protest was lost in the joyful din.

‘This next song is for someone special,’ Rupert called out in his clear, booming voice, waving away the irritated boy at the centre of the room. ‘A man of the law, too often unrecognised for his fine service to this fine city. A great man,’ he said, looking around theatrically, ‘who, I’ve heard, is here with us tonight.’ The entire hall quieted and glanced about expectantly. ‘Sir Ian Fielding, this song is for you.’

A raucous cheer erupted at a table to my left. Several men amiably slapped the back of a finely attired older gentleman seated beside them. He lifted a sloshing glass in appreciation and shouted, ‘Hear! Hear!’ as Rupert began to sing.

Rupert Wynn could sing. His voice was honey dripping fresh from the hive, a field of wildflowers in bloom, the morning sun as it breached the horizon. I was stunned, stuck in place, staring out at him open-mouthed.

And then he shrugged in my direction and flashed a self-congratulatory grin, and the spell was broken. Why is it, I wondered as I struggled toward the magistrate, that all the men I know are so vexingly assured of their own talent? At least Rupert really is talented. George, on the other hand…

But enough about Rupert, and enough about George. At this point in the night, I became helpful—as a gentleman, I could reasonably weasel my way into conversation with this Fielding fellow and scrutinise him for clues. I was far more nervous than I let on. I wanted Rupert to think me brave and brilliant, so I’d agreed to everything he asked and kept a confident expression on my face. But inside, I was shaking. Lying about being a successful painter is one thing—Charlotte is my dearest friend, and she does most of the work behind that ruse—but interrogating a man of the law is something else entirely!

I spent the evening working my way into the magistrate’s circle, which mostly consisted of various barristers and earls and such. The place was noisy and distracting, and many of the songs were terribly salacious. Anyone at all could perform, and some of the entertainers were…well, amateur is putting it kindly.

I was just beginning to notice the quality of the magistrate’s outfit, seemingly more expensive than what a magistrate could afford, when Rupert took the stage a second time. This song was a deep and moving love ballad, and he looked right at me. His voice was rich and warm, and his eyes…he winked at me! There was trouble on his face throughout the entire song.

I should have seen it coming. I really should have seen it coming.

Anyway—his song ended, and I returned to my mission. The magistrate was several drinks into his night. He delighted in buying round after round for the table, showing off how indulgent and generous he could afford to be—foisting a full bottle of expensive cognac on me and draping a heavy arm over my shoulders. I let the bottle remain open and untouched in my hand and subtly poured each glass that was handed to me into the potted plant behind my chair. I was the only clear-headed man at that table, and I used it to my advantage.

I asked the magistrate about his pocket watch, shiny and new. I asked him about the brocade silk of his waistcoat, about the jewel-encrusted walking stick leaning against the table. The other men, rowdy and curious, wanted to know as well. I tried to stay focused, but I kept noticing—maddeningly noticing—how easily Rupert charmed the patrons of each table he visited. He could either intuit which men shared the same romantic inclination as he, or he already knew, from experience.

This should not have made me as red in the face as it did.

I’m not jealous, I told myself. Just annoyed that Rupert isn’t helping me to interrogate Sir Ian.

Because talking sternly to myself always works.

Eventually, by continuing to goad the magistrate, I was able to confirm that he has recently come into a large sum of money, though he wouldn’t—couldn’t—say how. He gave a knowing wink to the men at the table, as if such illicit financial gains were common enough to be an in-joke. They chuckled, and I forced myself to laugh as well.

I am not a fool. I know the men of my station are rarely honest. But I had never met the people hurt by their dishonesty before. Not like this.

I find I have become, almost without noticing, quite irrevocably committed to Rupert’s cause. I find I want to see justice done: I want to see something right happen, for once, among the men who rule this city and get away with it time after time.

But it is more than that.

I will confess here, in this journal that no one will ever read, that I have started to care for Rupert Wynn.

I want to see Rupert well. And I don’t know how he got wrapped up in this scheme, but I know he won’t be well until it is resolved.

Finally Sir Ian fell asleep in a puddle of brandy and drool. I heaved his arm unceremoniously off my back, took my leave of his party, spun about…and nearly collided with Rupert.

‘It seems as though you’ve had a productive evening,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘What?’ I looked down and realised I was still holding the bottle of cognac. ‘Oh…well…it was a gift…’ Why did I have to explain myself to a man who had abandoned me all night? ‘You certainly seemed to have fun,’ I countered. I’m just annoyed, I reminded myself. Not jealous.

‘Just catching up with old friends,’ Rupert said with an easy smile. ‘And I didn’t want to interrupt your tête-à-tête with Sir Ian. You two really seemed to hit it off.’

He gestured down at the sleeping magistrate, who, as if on cue, began to snore.

‘Oh yes,’ I said, pulling Rupert toward the exit. ‘He really is quite the conversationalist.’

I should have said my farewells then and there. We had gotten enough useful information and I was waking to the appalling realisation that Rupert is lodging himself into my heart, and with that I should have hailed a carriage and returned home. That would have been the safe, sensible thing to do.

But Rupert wanted to walk me home. He wanted to swap stories from our night apart, and sing verses of songs stuck in his head, and laugh at how easy it is to get self-aggrandising magistrates to implicate themselves in untoward plots.

He asked to walk me home, he looked at me with that soft and eager face, and I could not say no. I did not want to.

As we stepped into the wintry night, I summarised Sir Ian’s drunken babbling.

Rupert listened, enthralled. ‘The money he’s talking about, it’s got to be a pay-off from Percival. I just wish we could prove it…’ He sighed. ‘Thank you for coming with me tonight. I really appreciate it. And…and I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘For leaving you alone with that oaf.’ Rupert bit his lip. ‘Men like that, wealthy men…they don’t talk to people like me. To commoners.’ He turned toward me, and his lips quirked up. ‘You’re an artist, so you don’t count.’

‘A very successful artist.’

Rupert grinned. ‘Mmm-hmm.’ He reached for the bottle of cognac, popped the cork, and took a hearty swig. ‘You seemed to quite enjoy my singing tonight.’

I wrested the bottle back from his hands and took a long sip. ‘I suppose you were alright.’

We strolled beneath the flickering gaslights and eventually came to a bridge, my cheeks sore from smiling and laughing, my feet tired from cracks in the stone. We paused to look out upon the water, and then his face was so close, and I…I almost…

My hand trembles just to think of that moment again. I trembled then, as I hurriedly looked away across the Thames, and turned our conversation back to our adventure.

I did not think of George Haddonfield all evening.

Damn him for thinking my life was without poetry. Damn him for thinking I am unworthy of adventure.

But damn him, most of all, for making me think I had something to prove. That is what dragged me into this mess in the first place. And I will get out of this mess without a twice-broken heart: I will not fall for Rupert, who is far more exciting than George ever was, who will surely think me dull and boring just the same.

My life may be worth writing about, but if I am to be honest with myself, it is only worth writing about in a private journal. It will never be worth reading about, or singing about with a voice as pure and honey-sweet as Rupert Wynn’s.