Misadventures of a Gentleman

Ethan Marcus Thorne, the newly appointed Baron of Ashford, had a growing aversion for ballroom parties and matchmaking mamas. His father, the previous Baron, wasn’t yet cold in the grave and already the suffocating advances and attentions from old, tedious biddies and their equally harpy daughters, who wanted nothing more than his income of twelve thousand pounds per annum, gave him acute, sharp headaches that not even a glass of Red Bordeaux could dull. He had hoped that his paltry Baron title could at least dissuade these opportunistic women, but one should never underestimate the appeal of a rich and handsome bachelor, who inherited a coal mine in Cornwall and estates in Derbyshire and Northamptonshire. Thus, it was this very coal mine Lady Isabella, daughter of an impoverish Irish duke, prattled on in a tone of feign gaiety.  For what, in heaven’s name, would a sheltered, fish-eyed wench know of coal mines anyway. But good manners imposed Lord Ashford to at least give half an ear to this encroaching creature, though the grandfather clock by the stairwell held his steely gaze. “Do you use gun powder, Lord Ashford, to break a wall? And do you, perchance, dig other minerals aside from coal?” “Of sorts, my lady,” was his weary answer. He looked over the lady’s feathered turban and watched couples dancing the cotillion, and on the corner of his eye, Sir Horace Ainsley, attired in his regiment raiment and adorned with medals of honor, crossed the room to his side. “Thorne,” whooped the army man, patting his shoulder with one heavy hand. “I’ve no time to explain, but, by Jove, you must come with me this instant!” “Oh, what is the hurry, sir?” asked Lady Isabella, her color heightening.   Lord Ashford shook his head and smiled apologetically to the duke’s daughter. “If you please excuse us, Lady Isabella, but it would seem my service is in need.” “No time for niceties, Thorne,” Sir Horace harangued. “Apologies, my lady, but he and I have no time to lose.” “Why, y-yes. Please don’t let me keep you.” “Ah, you’re a gem,” Sir Horace quipped. Both men bowed their heads. Sir Horace led Lord Ashford out of the ballroom and into his carriage. He closed the curtains of his tiny window, knocked on the vehicle’s roof, and off they went from Lord Brummel’s estate. Lord Ashford pulled his white gloves with his teeth and tucked them into his coat pockets. “An explanation to my sudden k********g would suffice, Ainsley,” he drawled. “k********g!” echoed the burly man. “You put words into my mouth, Thorne, and this here ain’t a kidnapping.” “And what, pray, should this be called?” “Lord, Thorne, you don’t have a shred of gratitude in that body of yours. Though you must tell me the names of your tailors. Your jacket and pantaloons have a nice cut. Anyway, this ain’t a k********g. This here is a rescuing.” He sneered. “A rescuing?” “Don’t deny it, you gib-faced hornswoggler. That party was a bore and that Irish mooncalf wouldn’t leave you alone.” “Good point, Ainsley, and I thank you. Indeed, the party was a bore. I’d liefer cut my leg off than spend another moment with Lady Isabella.” “Aye, and tonight I shall take you to a soiree.” Sir Horace Ainsley watched his friend’s heavy-lidded eyes fly open and purse his lips. “Don’t make that face, Thorne. It ain’t even midnight yet, and I guess you’ve nothing better to do tomorrow.” “Pardon, but how I spend my hours isn’t your concern,” he bitterly said. “Where are you taking me?” “Always a hothead, eh? Told you, to a soiree in Fleet Street.” “Fleet Street!” exclaimed Lord Ashford. “Who, in heaven’s name, would hold a soiree in Fleet Street? Don’t tell me one of your questionable acquaintances extended an invitation to you?” “Hey-o! Spot on, Thorne, but Ms. Aethelinde assures me it’ll be a bang-up affair.” “Aethelinde—that Gypsy?” “Aye, she’s a Gypsy, but that ain’t the point. She says only a few chosen individuals are going to show up, bottles of the best wine from her cellar, a few hands of faro or piquet maybe, and well—” Lord Ashford huffed impatiently and waved his fingers. “Out with it, Ainsley. Rather than learn of it later, I’d like to know now.” “You ain’t a parson, Thorne, and your collar ain’t starched stiff, and I know you wouldn’t mind.” “Mind what?” he seethed, growing even more impatient of his friend’s dawdle. “Well, they love their opium.” “Opium? God, Ainsley, are you going to take us to a-an orgy? Haven’t I told you to stay away from Ms. Aethelinde?” “Nay, it wouldn’t be wild or licentious. Just a small party of like-minded individuals enjoying their opium. Come now, Ashford, we’ve had our fill of salaciousness with bits of muslin in our days in Oxford. And Ms. Aethelinde assures me no harm will be done to our persons.” Lord Ashford opened and shut his mouth for a retort, but he grew weary of the conversation and the dull ache on the left side of his head became pronounced. He waved his fingers in resignation and sank in his seat. Perhaps, the Baron thought, Sir Horace had forgotten that it was the consumption of opium which caused the previous Baron of Ashford’s death. A little while later, they stopped at an ill-lit establishment. Temple of the Fates: Book Shop the sign, which hung above the door, said. From his view in the vehicle, Lord Ashford judged the Temple of the Fates: Book Shop as an old, gothic square building made of dark, sunbaked bricks from the last century. The gentlemen walked into the shop, where Ms. Aethelinde, dressed in a high-waisted bodice with a low neckline, which underscored her buxom bosom, sat in the counter with a book in hand. The Baron looked around the shop, noted the cobwebs hanging above his head and the lack of books—a curiosity for a book shop. “Mr. Ainsley!” greeted Ms. Aethelinde, batting her eyes and putting her book away. She turned to Lord Ashford and smiled. “Isn’t this a surprise, sir?” “Hope you don’t mind, Athy. I brought Ethan with me.” “Mind! Nay, my Mr. Ainsley, any friend of yours is a friend of mine.” But not mine, thought the Baron derisively. Sir Horace, in his most roguish address, possessed Ms. Aethelinde’s calloused hand and kissed it passionately. “My girl, that’s what I like about you—always so open.” The Gypsy woman giggled, a sound Lord Ashford likened to the gritting of teeth. She coyly twisted the tassel on Sir Horace’s shoulder and whispered huskily in his ear, earning her a blush from the army man. She crossed the floor to the farthest right wall where a bookshelf with a bronze bust of Nero as its only occupant stood. “The soiree started just two hours ago, but most of the guests have arrived. I believe the four bottles of Madeira have been consumed and a fifth will be opened soon. Brandy and port will be served shortly. No heavy meals here. Although there are slices of ham and pork cutlets if you’ll like. You can ask the servers for trifles and tarts—oh! and olives. Mr. Antonelli opened the bank and either of you may play. We’ve an assortment of guests tonight, Mr. Ainsley.” “Egad! Certainly if Mr. Antonelli is here, the Chevalier is as well!” “Chevalier,” echoed Lord Ashford. “And a newcomer the Chevalier calls Le Touriste,” added Ms. Aethelinde hastily. “Ain’t that a bland moniker!” Mr. Ainsley quipped. “I assure you sir, he is anything but bland.” Ms. Aethelinde pushed Nero’s bust down, a machination of sorts that slid the shelf aside, revealing an entrance to a poorly lit room. “Welcome to the soiree, gentleman.” A heavy curtain of smoke wafted in the room. Lit ends of cigars, the small fire and embers in the fireplace, and two chandeliers could barely alight the room, but Lord Ashford, looking around his surroundings of men on tables playing cards and women in gauzy dresses drinking liquor, concluded this didn’t bother the guests. Sir Horace clapped the Baron’s back. “Don’t just stand there, Thorne. You have to meet my acquaintances—Antonelli!” “Italian, I presume?” Lord Ashford groaned. From the card table, a hulk of a man—dark and brawny—stood and ambled to them in a fluid, feline manner. Rather than a man, he was a handsome leopard with his gold-flecked eyes and cool demeanor. He bowed his head smoothly and grinned. “Mr. Ainsley, care for a game?” he said with a heavy Venetian accent. He turned his bright gaze to Lord Ashford. “Your friend, sir?” The Baron, stupefied by this individual’s unearthly good looks, caught his tongue, and stammered, “Ethan Marcus Thorne, Baron of Ashford.” “I am Antonelli, Valentin Antonelli, master of the card table.” Sir Horace guffawed. “If you’re the master of anything, it would be certainly the card table.” “What’s this I hear—a baron?” a wisp of a man with powdered hair stepped from a cloud of smoke. Opium, Lord Ashford groaned inwardly.   “Chevalier,” Sir Horace cheerfully said. “Not Chevalier, Mr. Ainsley, but The Chevalier. How do you do, Baron of Ashford?” he stretched out two of his fingers to the nobleman. The Baron tentatively shook these fingers and bowed his head. “I see you have powdered your hair.” The Chevalier quickly ran a hand over his head. “Well, short crops and unpowdered hair do not suit me, Baron. Although your Titus haircut has piqued my interest. Did you use curling tongs? Antonelli, do you suppose the Titus will agree with my oval face?” “You can opt for the Brutus, Chevalier,” Sir Horace chimed in. “Nay, Mr. Ainsley, only Brummel can have the Brutus,” sighed the Chevalier. Lord Ashford bereft of speech, watched this animated exchange of Ceasar, Bedford Crop, Coup au Vent, and Cherubin with a bored look. He stepped away from this circle and found himself an empty lounge, where a server provided him with a glass of port. He sipped gingerly, wondering when the opportune time was to attempt for his exit. As he finished his glass, another feline-like individual came to his view—a man with gold stalks for hair. He smiled to the Baron and sat next to him. “It seems they have forgotten of your existence, Baron,” said the man in a Russian accent. “Dobryy vecher, Lord Ashford.” “Doby vicher,” Lord Ashford stammered. “I suppose you’re taking a rest from the opium?” The Russian laughed. “Opium was never meant for recreational activities, Baron. I love my friends, but I’d rather have them avoid the drug.” His long, white fingers brushed a tendril of hair off Lord Ashford’s face. “My lord,” he said, “you have turned red. Is it the heat? I confess, I cannot stand the warmth of the fireplace.” “N-no, but I didn’t expect to find a person who’d loathed opium in an orgy.” “An orgy?” thundered the Russian. “Is this not a—how do you Englishmen say—uh—soiree?” His eyes, Lord Ashford thought, was a deep sea green—like cut glass. Though he was pale, this stranger could hardly be called hideous with his Romanov nose and smiling mouth. “I believe this is a soiree. I apologize, but I didn’t catch your name, sir.” “Ah, but where are my manners?” the stranger drawled and caught the Baron’s hand. “I am Nikolai, Nikolai Grazinsky.” “Grazinksy—” Lord Ashford echoed. Nikolai Grazinsky stared at him with his green, laughing eyes and kissed his palm. The Baron caught his breath, trying to pull his hand free. “The Chevalier also calls me Le Touriste.” His cool fingers touched Lord Ashford’s wrist. “We must meet again, Baron,” he whispered in the young lord’s ear. “How d-dare you,” Lord Ashford muttered in a watered-down voice. The thud of incoming footsteps caught Ashford’s attention and Sir Horace along with the Chevalier called his name. “Was he an acquaintance of yours, Thorne?” Lord Ashford turned his gaze to the empty seat beside him. “Oh, very good, Baron of Ashford. You’ve finally met Le Touriste,” the Chevalier said. “You will find him a delight.” The kiss Le Touriste left in his palm burned, and Ethan Marcus Thorne was adamant to return the favor with a bullet through Nikolai Grazinsky’s head.