Some half-cut old scribbler from long ago, who I’d read about in one of ‘is lordship’s neglected books, once said, When a man is tired of London he is tired of life. Well, despite my working hours, I was far from tired of The Smoke, but I was fast growing tired of this God-forsaken rain. All day it had smashed down from a thunderous sky, threatening to split the cobbles — most unseasonal for August, and no mistake, even in these peculiar times.
Against the bleak horizon the spire of Mr Eiffel’s tower, nearing completion in Hyde Park, was aglow with lightning. Not an evening to brave the zeppelin docking station planned for the summit. Some mad bugger claimed it would be visible from every window in London, once complete; I had my doubts. The poor Frenchies had no use for it and neither did I. With any luck, it would fall victim to this dreary storm.
And here was I, exposed to the elements, last in another long line of gentlemen’s gentlemen, patiently awaiting the arrival of our betters. Hunched against the deluge we peered through the mirk for a glimpse of our masters, holding umbrellas not destined to shelter us for long, huddling under soon to be dripping bowlers. At least circumstance provided a chance to sample the wonders the Imperial Capital had to offer — the sights, the sounds, the stench — the slack-jawed gape of the great-unwashed held back by a line of coppers across the street, straining for a sight of the toffs in all their finery. Well, I’d seen high society up close (often when laid low) and could have told ‘em it wasn’t worth the effort. At least the plebs were getting a good soaking — many seemed in dire need. Not before time ‘is lordship’s carriage clattered into view.
The hansom pulled in against the streaming gutter, clogged with a torrent of filth. A pair of jet black mares glistened, wide-eyed under the fluttering gaslights. The driver, a ferociously mutton-chopped fellow, scowled at me, but caught the shilling I tossed him nimbly enough. The horses took the opportunity to discharge their capacious bowels onto the queen’s highway. I opened the door just as ‘is lordship tumbled out.
‘Hold the blasted thing steady Bill,’ he says to me. ‘You’ve no idea what I paid for this clobber.’
The clobber in question was the full dress uniform of the 11th Hussars — not our regiment, truth be told, but that of his ill-fated father. Chosen, as with much else regarding my illustrious employer, for visual impact rather than practicality. The mantle of shining medals pinned to his breast were genuine enough, Lord alone knew how. Struggling with the brolly I helped him straighten his busby. The sword only got in the way.
‘There you go, sir. As good as new.’
Course, I had every idea what he’d paid for this outlandish garb. Wasn’t it yours truly who managed his debts? Wasn’t it me who laid out his finery and ironed his smalls? Yes, I had every idea about all matters pertaining to the Honourable Alexander Faversham, England’s most celebrated ‘gentleman adventurer’ — hero of Kandahar, scourge of blushing debutants and darling of the press. Not technically a lord himself of course, just the third son of one, but still a lord to the likes of me, who’d risen from a gutter very much like the one I now stood in.
Yes, I took good care of all his dirty laundry. It was dear old Bill who had a sly word in the ear of those who’d listen, and knocked together the heads of those who would not. Bill, who paid the bribes; who ensured the gentlemen from the papers knew what was what. Master of my master’s cupboards, that’s me — and I kept the skeletons within all neat and tidy. I knew where the bodies were buried, might even have wielded a shovel myself from time to time. Gentlemen like the guvnor couldn’t be seen getting their hands dirty. And some of us were born with filth caked under our nails.
But this evening, being such a grand occasion, I put on my best airs and graces. ‘Museum is filling up, sir. Not to worry though, you’ve been afforded a front-row seat. Guest of honour, you might say.’
His lordship puffed out his jangling chest. ‘Of course I have, man. Sir Percy is no fool — wants me front and centre when he gives his wearisome talk. The likes of I add a much needed veneer of glamour to proceedings.’
Just a year shy of thirty, half a decade younger than myself, the boss was tall and lean; I had but an inch on him. Master Alex smoothed his waxed moustache and cast a piercing blue eye around the assembling throng. ‘Dare say they’re here as much to see me as some dusty book. With any luck we’ll be finished in time for last orders at the club. Lead the way, Bill.’
I had my doubts about that. Reportedly Sir Percy’s lectures could go on for hours, and rumour had it he was most enamoured with his latest find. The silly fellow was highly agitated, by all accounts. I’d resigned myself to a long evening listening to the tedious comings and goings of tombs-full of long-dead pharaohs, their barbarous funeral practices and tastes in triangular mausoleums. Not the first time my service was required to go well above and beyond the call of duty. But I’ve always prided myself I could endure uncanny hardships, however queer. This evening would be no exception.
By the time we mounted the steps my bowler was soaked through. Glad of the shelter afforded by the towering columns we hurried inside. A steady flow of distinguished guests made their way into the high vaulted chamber. Much of London society seemed in attendance — more nobs than a Shoreditch brothel. As well as the expected scholars of antiquity I noted several cabinet ministers, various prominent captains of industry, the usual gaggle press barons, foreign dignitaries and their assorted hangers on. A sign of the times was the smattering of aristocratic Frenchies, grim faced refugees from their benighted homeland. In fact, if the Anarchists or Fenians had planted a bomb, a fair chunk of Europe’s movers and shakers could have been wiped out in one fell swoop; Sir Percy Tiverton had cast his invitations far and wide. What I didn’t see were many policemen. Across the way the few peelers present had their hands full containing the crowds of looky-loos. No doubt our host thought the presence of my guvnor, and several other of his ilk, afforded a measure of security inside the venue — maybe he wasn’t so learned after all.
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As we made our way inside I spotted the first hint of trouble. It came in the imposing form of the Comte de Artois, one of those aforementioned itinerant French toffs. On his arm glided a raven haired beauty with a devilish glint in her eye and a salacious swing to her hips. I knew her to be his good lady wife — though neither of those terms fitted her as snuggly as her flamboyantly embroidered bodice. A big, athletic man, famed for his skill with both sword and pistol, the Comte peeled off from his companion and strode towards us, flushed face as thunderous as the evening sky. Hurrying to stow the brolly I cursed there was no time to slip away. The Frenchie struck a pose before the guvnor and declared for all to hear, ‘Arrêt, monsieur! I would ‘ave a word.’
Infuriatingly a crowd had gathered — febrile expectation adding to the growing air of menace, undercut with a whiff of boot polish and garlic. These buggers loved nothing better than a show. My heart was in my mouth, but there was no elegant way to escape. Silently I cursed my lack of forethought; I should have known what was up as soon as I clapped eyes on the missus — who was busy making the most of the spectacle, fanning herself furiously and making doe-eyes at all and sundry — laying on the ooh-la-la as thick as antique camembert.
The guvnor feigned nonchalance, a disposition to which he was uncommonly suited. But I (who knew him better than most) could see the fear in his eye. The Comte had a formidable reputation.
‘A word you say? Be my guest, my good man — why not have several? As long as you’ll have the decency to converse in English — we’re in civilization now, don’t you know.’
There were titters from the swell of on-lookers. A glittering monocle fell from the widening eye of the proprietor of The Times. My heart changed direction and plumbed new depths, as somehow the Comte conspired to turn a deeper shade of crimson. With herculean effort he kept himself under control. I watched in horror as he removed one elegant leather riding glove. He spoke with forced patience, spitting out the words like poisoned seeds.
‘You sir, are both a bounder and a cad. A fraud, a blaggard, a coureur de jupons. One whose heroic reputation iz fabricated in contradiction to realité. Well, you’ve been found out, and tomorrow I will have my revanche.’
With that he stepped forward and slapped the guvnor about the chops with said mittaine, before casting it to the flagstones with a flourish. A gasp went up from the crowd. At least one reporter frantically scribbled notes. ‘If you’re homme enough, tomorrow we meet at dawn. Appoint your second!’
As we stared down at the gauntlet plenty was racing through my mind — mostly, that I was a fool for letting it come to this. I hadn’t shepherded the guvnor through thick and thin, to this stage of his glittering career, to have what little brains he possessed blown out by this gallic galoot. I was going to have to think of something fast. Thing was, I knew it was all true. Master Alex was all those things Artois claimed, and more beside — I could have added some piquant details of my own. What I also knew was my boss had been topping this Frenchie’s missus. Half of London knew it, and now it seemed monsieur le rouge knew it too. He appeared less than happy about it.
The guvnor looked startled, but quickly regained his composure. Perhaps there was some benefit to a British officer’s education after all. Left to his own devices ‘is lordship was mostly bluster and bullshit — but at least he was good at it. He stood up straight.
‘You sir, are a fool sir. This is 1888, not the middle ages. No one’s fought a duel in years. I’d like as not go to the gallows for murder.’
The Comte threw his mighty head back and bellowed mirthless laughter. ‘Ave no fear, monsieur. You’ll not live to stand trial for your sins, though I don’t doubt they are many. After I kill you on the field of honour I will take my chances with the law. When the truth outs there’s no judge in any land who’d not praise me for ending your sorry existence!’
Now the guvnor sounded less sure of himself. ‘We don’t fight duels in England no more, Napoleon. Pick up your blasted glove.’
The Comte’s smile got nowhere near his piercing eyes. ‘Oh, I beg to differ. The Casus Club, of which you and now I, as well as our gracious host, are all members, is famous for clandestine duels, as I’m sure you know. Besides, in La Belle France we still abide by a code of honour, not that I’d expect the likes of you to understand. Now if you are man enough, you pick up le glove.’
His lordship side-eyed the all too eager throng, who were reaching a fever-pitch of excitement. The boss was in a bind, and no mistake. Too many eyes on him — too many prominent eyes to back out gracefully. What else could he do? Stiffly he bent down and retrieved the glove. I suppose I should have felt relief — at least he was buying me time to think of a way out. Rather half-heartedly he made a few perfunctory swipes at the Comte’s glowing features and handed said article back to his smouldering challenger.
‘Very well, sir. I accept.’
The Comte’s smile became genuine. ‘I’ll play cuckold to no man nor beast. Our valets will confer. We meet at dawn.’ And with that he turned on his squeaking heels and marched back to his swooning madame.
The lady in question had made much of the performance, milking it for all she was worth — and believe me she was one expensive fille. No doubt she was revelling in the attention caused by two dashing blades so publicly vying for her affections. She retook her husband’s arm and, behind his back, even had the cajones to throw my guvnor a saucy wink, before the pair marched off between the columns, as if on a peaceful evening stroll. I almost had to admire her cheek. I knew the guvnor harboured great fondness for all four.
The assembled crowd, which I’m sorry to say had grown quite large, broke into an excited chatter — bloodthirsty bastards the lot of ‘em. I don’t think I’ve ever harboured such loathing for the English upper classes than at that moment. The lords and ladies would be a lot less bloodthirsty if they’d seen what I’d seen — human flotsam blown to bits by bomb and bullet on a host of pointless battlefields, from Kansas to Kabul. Folk with no exposure to the savagery of wonton violence often seem able to romanticize the barbarity. Those of us who’ve lived it, up close and personal like, hold no such illusions.
But I digress; those are tales for another time. There was nothing for it right then but to brazen it out. His lordship forced a smile for his impromptu audience, and says to me, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘what the buggery are we going to do, Bill?’
I managed to sound much calmer than I felt. ‘Have no fear, sir. I’ll think of something — I always do. You’d best make your way inside and leave the rest to me.’ I could sense my opposite number hovering nearby. ‘Seems I’ve got a duel to fix up all nice and proper.’