Twelve Letters

Chapter 1London, Spring 1814 Racing down the staircase and striding out of the front door of his rooms, far earlier in the morning than was fashionable, Jolyon Everett paused on the pavement on Orange Street, scanning for an urchin who would be glad of a penny or two as payment for an errand. He caught the attention of a street boy lounging against the railings of a house a few doors down, his eyes lighting up at the proffered coin. Along with the money, Jolyon handed over two letters, with careful instructions for their delivery. As the boy trotted off in the correct direction for the first address, Jolyon was satisfied the first business of the day had been rapidly dispatched. Setting off toward Piccadilly, he smiled at the thought of the reception of his letter to his paramour, Percy Havilland, who liked nothing so much as words of worshipful fervor to rouse his ardor and retain his fluctuating interest. Percy was a veritable Adonis with blond curls, large blue eyes, kissable lips and the most delectable arse in London. It was also a very popular arse, given any discreet gossip among men of their tastes. “Changes his lovers as often as his drawers,” one gentleman had said rather wistfully. Jolyon knew he was fortunate to have those dazzling sapphire eyes stray his way, and even if the affair didn’t last until the end of the Season, he was doing his best to hold Percy’s flickering attention for as long as he could. He’d been rather pleased with his turn of phrase, flowing over two pages, painstakingly penned at his writing desk, while he was wrapped in his banyan. When glancing through the note, Jo rather smugly judged his tone to be the correct combination of slavish devotion and utter filth to garner an enthusiastic reception. The other letter, a brief note to the senior assistant of his tailor in Bond Street, was in his mind almost equally important, although he wouldn’t dare disclose that to Percy. Jolyon was undergoing the fitting process for an expensive new coat in a shade of dark slate that the young tailor assured him brought out his gray eyes and the copper tints in his chestnut hair. Yesterday, during a conference with this expert helper, Jolyon had dithered over the choice of brass or mother of pearl buttons and had decided to sleep on this important ruling overnight. Once his letters had been written and he had donned a clean shirt, his valet, whose services he shared with the two other gentlemen rooming on the same floor, helped him into his superfine breeches and tight-fitting coat and judged a simple Waterfall cravat sufficient to carry his master through some early morning visiting. There had been a slight hesitation when Jolyon realized that he had sealed his missives before adding an address. But he was convinced the note to his tailor, consisting of only a few lines, was the lighter in weight and decisively added the direction without a qualm. Having dealt with these relatively trifling and pleasant issues, he sharpened his focus and lengthened his stride along the Haymarket in preparation for his pressing task of the day, to prevent bloodshed or even murder. * * * * Edward Stephens, a newly qualified physician, courtesy of a twelve-month stay at St. Bartholomew’s hospital, yawned and stretched in his comfortable bed in the guest room he occupied in his aunt’s gracious townhouse off Grosvenor Square. Heavens, what a dream, was his first waking thought. But as he gradually gained full consciousness, with a roil of nausea only partly caused by consuming more brandy than he had ever touched in his relatively short life, the fragmentary glimmers of the disastrous night before became all too real. Sitting up very gingerly, he considered his options, none of which looked very promising. Somehow, during the celebrations for passing his examinations, having ended up at Boodles, the exclusive gentlemen’s club in St. James’, he had not only managed to enrage a man he idolized, but as a result, had been challenged to a duel. As a medical student, accustomed to dealing with injuries as a matter of course on the hospital wards, Edward was not squeamish, but was horrified at the mull he’d made of his situation on the very cusp of success. His proud father, also a doctor, was expecting Edward at home within the next few weeks, once he was finally given leave from Barts, to assist with his busy country practice in Wiltshire. The grand plan was that the younger Doctor Stephens would eventually take over the reins in years to come. Edward threw off the blankets and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. With all his glowing prospects for the future, his papa would not be prepared for his beloved son to be returned in a shroud, or receive the news he was fleeing the country to escape a charge of unlawful killing. Groaning as he stood up, Edward doused his face with cooling water from the bowl at the washstand, and still in his nightgown, he looked around for his writing case. There was nothing else for it. He must try to find a way to make amends and avoid this unnecessary confrontation. The flowery words of society were not for him since his attempt at aping polite manners last night had got him into dire straits. So he wrote from the heart, a few straightforward sentences of sincere penitence, and left the ink to dry as he quickly dressed. Descending the grand staircase, his folded note clutched in his hand, Edward espied the butler, stately as always, stationed in his usual position in the grandiose hallway. “Ah, Gifford,” he said with relief, “just the man I wanted to see. Could you see this is delivered as quickly as possible, it’s a matter of…” he hesitated. Honor? Life or death? “It’s very important,” he finished lamely. “Of course, Mr. Edward,” Gifford said unquestioningly. “I’ll send one of the footmen without delay.” Thanking the butler, Edward walked toward the mansion’s morning room, squaring his shoulders, manfully hiding that the scent of breakfast dishes was making his stomach churn. He had to hope that his letter would reach its intended recipient immediately to begin the process of compromise. In the meantime, he must disguise his aching head and his concerns, make polite conversation with his aunt at the dining table, and try his best not to disgrace himself any further by casting up his accounts.