KINGDOMS OF DESIRE

One-half of the royal court under the monarchy of the United Kingdom, George III, King of Great Britain, and Ireland crowded with pagers, assistants, and secretaries of the state, but the call of Gysbert van Laan’s name, making sudden bubbles of comments among them. Immediately they turned their heads have a glimpse of the tall and brawny young man walking into the spacious room. Magnificent and debonair, knowing what to do in every social situation and making people feel good about themselves, and confidently, he crossed the floor toward the king. Dressed in splendid silken garments in pink and blue, a contemporary style made directly from Paris, his convivial presence had that effect among the nobility groups. Those female eyes launched upon him hungrily and gasping in shameless in their private inner circles. Nobles, gentlemen, military men, and the lowest castes lengthened their necks from far and near, as well as with them sharpen tongues talking about him, not as nicely as the ladies were doing. An avenue of people among them opened. His features serene, looking ahead, to the king, who, surrounded by a selection of elites and confessors, had an enigmatic smile across his thin lips. Reaching the royal spot, he bowed gentlemanly to him. “You must be the man with whom all London is talking.” “Not me, Excellency,” he bowed elegantly, having this mysterious expression of a smirk in his lips, “not the way I presume it should be, and as I promised one of your ministries, here is my presence. Congratulations!” Gysbert van Laan moved forward and handed him personally an elaborate box. “Would I suppose to open it, Magnus Dux van Laan?” “Yes. It’ll be an honor by such gesture of yours, and as a humble servant I’ll appreciate it very much, Your Majesty.” “Very well.” He opened the box. A tropical pink angel trump made up with red and green diamonds appeared before him. “Oh, mine!” “If you whistle into it,” suggested van Laan, “another surprise will come with it.” “Now?” “Yes.” He took it to his pale lips, and while his ministries, pagers, and servants, including his wife Charlotte of Necklenburg-Strealitz and his relatives, watched him, he whistled against the box. At this moment, a dozen rarest births invaded the court. “Oh, how clever.” By magic the birds landed with cheerful sounds in front of him. “See, Your Excellency. The tropical has come to your feet.” When the king received van Laan’s gifts with such surprise, he asked him if there was a trick he might consider and that he felt so pleased by such a demonstration. “What is it, Magnus Dux?” “There is none.” He got up from the seat. He leaned forward and grasped one for the birds. He noticed it was real. “I love it. So, let’s have an enjoyable time now.” Not yet revealing what he was here, Gysbert van Laan took a moment to speak with Baron of Garson Evelle, who, when he delivered van Laan’s message, the king showed him to step near him. “Who may be? One of those beings from the hills? Oh, I know. A mistress. I know you’ve a soft heart, I may say.” “No. She’s a lovely friend of my pastor,” van Laan replied, lying a little to the monarch. “A letter with two sentences in a white sheet with does.” The supreme man raised his hand. A royal servant of the court, John Leech, the second of the right wing, arrived and he told him what he needed: paper, pen, and the royal stamp. Within a minute, Gysbert van Laan got the letter, peered at the king, and bowed deeply before him again. “May I ask you, Magnus Dux van Laan,” he came closer to him, “is true what they say that you are the richer than me?” “No, Your Excellency, you are. I’m just the mean one who is turning zero into a penny. “I thought so.” The music started but Gysbert van Laan was more interested in the military Commander Sir Rhell Wexler, escorted by high-ranking officers. He had marked him since the City of Rome, following his victories after victories and his popularity in clubs and madam houses around London as well as a fervent hater to Napoleon’s policy to England’s expansions and the conquer of Austria, both wasting empires in front of his eyes. Moving across the floor was one of van Laan’s first-class associates but a well-born noble he should be called a pretentious servant. Discreetly, he stopped a foot from him. “Gudrik.” “I am here, suh.” “You’ll follow the one next to him, the serious one after I leave.” “I’ll be delighted.” “Rhys will take you when you are ready to get back to the estate.” “Yes, Great Magnus Dux.” Lord of House Sharpsburg, Count Aston McCrow Mosdell, took this opportunity to withdraw from his acquaintances, and he moved to Gysbert van Laan, who was about to walk to the second room. He knew his arrival as Gudrik Maksson had slipped away from his master. Van Laan faced him. “My Lord,” he bowed coldly toward him. “Are you enjoying himself?” “Your magic has been a sensational one, Magnus Dux van Laan, and no one has expected you have come so well prepared. As has always been done your performance will be reported to every newspaper in the Land of Kingdom. Perhaps it’s an African trick. It’s the same magic road as Moses. You seem to link as the most fascinating passages of the biblical story of Moses dealing with the magical power of his rod and I know the way you are you don’t believe in the biblical saints saying. Here you are. I may say it was impressive before them but not me.” “It wasn’t done for everyone to please, Lord of Sharpsburg but to our king with whom he has been overtaken.” “Many of your people will die across the royal garden, suh.” He tilted himself in a delicate equilibrium of his body before van Laan, and he stretched his hand to him. “I’ll expect more perhaps.” As though the comment of Sharpsburg was harmful and that declaration was a kind of reforming an alliance in the London monarchy parliament, van Laan took a stern stand, which expressed in a new approach of being introduced, but his presence here was different, and there was no room for error, telling him that his personal honor was not invited for any people of his. Van Laan stepped forward, and he could smell the lack of water of the Lord of House’s snobbism, and he pressed his enigmatic eyes deeply into the soul of his. “My name is Gysbert van Laan, and I assume the proportion as a mixed race couldn’t be involved, my dear Count Mosdell…” he touched his chesty, stretched his finger and it was hard like a steel, and smiled so debonair, he bowed respectfully, and he walked to the door as an act of an educated being, but now of leaving, he saw that young woman wanting to follow him. She caught him in the spacious hallway. “Monsignor Laan?” “Oh, my lady, with whom I’ve this pleasure?” “The Dame of Cornellis.” She handed him a note. “You must be discreet as if to ask about something that will reveal the name before Bridget Deutscher, Chanelle Milton or Clayton Pares.” “I will.” “Would you call up at 10 in the House of Ottis?” “Tomorrow, perhaps.” “No, suh. Today.” “Certainly. Today. I meant.” When the lady was moving surreptitiously away from him, Giacomo Labeto appeared and nodded toward him. “Magnus Dux, his carriage is here.” “There will be a matter I must attend at 10 o’clock. Please, give me the words who Gazelle Gibbons is.” “Would I expect to see you tonight?” “Meet me at Ona’s.” “It’ll be done.”