got the feeling old Winfield is still probably hiding his head under the covers. We drank fairly deep last night, and the man doesn’t have the liver he should.” He stuck out his hand. “John Hatcher.”
Yes, Sir Edgar knew that. John Hatcher. No title, but a family that went back to the Great Fire (and may even have started it, if all his ancestors were as inept as this particular member of the Hatcher clan). Money that went back ever farther than that conflagration. Brains that had got misplaced somewhere along the way.
Oh, yes, Sir Edgar knew all about John Hatcher.
“It is a pleasure, sir,” Sir Edgar said, allowing his thin, trim hand to be half crushed in the bearlike grip of the much larger man. “Sir Edgar Marmington. I’m new to the city, never been here before, but my old school chum, Claypole, promised to…um…show me the sights. Can’t imagine where he is.”
“Claypole? Bit of a dry stick, that, don’t you think? I mean, maybe you wouldn’t know, not if you haven’t seen him since your school days, but he’s dull as…as a clay pole. Har! Har! That was a good one, eh? No, friend, you don’t want him. Claypole’s idea of seeing the sights would be a tour of all the churches, Lord help you. You’re better for him gone.”
Sir Edgar smiled, all attention. “Really? Not that I’m the hey-go-mad sort myself, understand. Sadly bookish, actually. But we’ve been corresponding, the viscount and myself, and he’d seemed so interested in my work…my travels through the ancient lands, my discovery of that old tome that told all about…”
Now Sir Edgar sighed. “I had so wanted to tell him in person that I’m wonderfully close now…at the very brink of discovery. He’s been so generous, subsidizing me monetarily in my research all these twenty years or more, you understand, for the greater end, the final reward. All I need are a few more things to complete my duplication of the monks’ experiments, the alchemist’s notes, and he’d promised—but, no, this is of no interest to you.”
“Probably not,” Hatcher said, tossing back the contents of his glass, and then pouring himself another measure of wine even while calling for a full bottle. “Don’t think I ever read a book, God’s truth. Pride m’self on that. Monks, you said? And what the devil’s an alchemist?”
Sir Edgar sat back, looked around the room nervously, then leaned in close, to whisper to John Hatcher….
“WHAT’S THIS MESS?” Olive Norbert whispered to Daphne Clifford in her booming voice (which is to say, she was probably heard in Tothill Fields, by little old ladies with brass ear trumpets), as she employed her fork to poke suspiciously at something on her plate. “It don’t look right. Looks sick.”
“More than sick, Mrs. Norbert,” Fanny said, winking at Emma. “It’s dead. And, as it’s escargot—that would be a snail, Mrs. Norbert—a snail, minus its shell, it demned well better would be dead, or I’ll be marching into the kitchens myself to ask why not. Oh, and because you’re looking as if you don’t believe me, please allow me to state this very firmly—it’s food.”
“Not on my plate, it ain’t,” Olive Norbert declared, pushing the serving of genuine French snails away from her with the tip of her fork. “Slimy things, leaving trails up the wall in the damp. Here now, you. Cart this mess off,” she commanded to Riley, doing duty at the table this evening.
“Bring me some meat, boy. Bloody red with juice. And a pudding. Go on, hop to it! I’m paying down good money for snails? In a pig’s eye, I am. Oh, and some ham, while you’re about it. It’s meat I want, and meat I will get or know the reason why.”
As Mrs. Norbert was twice Riley’s size (width-wise), and a paying guest, Riley hopped to, ready to serve, although it grated on him something awful, it really did. Mrs. Norbert was a pudding herself, a short, fat prawn with tiny, mean green eyes glinting out of a lumpy face, and with piss-yellow hair that frizzed here, curled there, but didn’t quite cover the shine of skin on the top of the behemoth’s head. She was no better than him. Maybe a whole lot worse.
“And it’s not me wanting you to try to cudgel that ugly brainbox of yours to think up a reason why, no, ma’am, it’s not,” Riley muttered under his breath as he turned to walk away.
Emma heard him, however, and kept her head down, to hide her smile. Mrs. Norbert might be crude, bordering on obnoxious most times, but she also had a point. When pinching the purse strings tight, the first thing to be sacrificed was meat. There had been many a meatless evening in the Clifford household until the next quarter’s allowance arrived from her father’s small estate.
“Um, Riley?” Daphne called timidly. “If…if I could also have this taken away? I…I think there may be eyes in it.”
“Oh, all right,” Fanny said, waving her hand. “We all want these snails gone, Riley. Might as well own up to it. Fancy is as fancy does, and I don’t really fancy chewing on these things. What’s up next?”
“I’ll check straightaway, madam,” Riley said, gathering up the “snail course” and piling the plates on his arm. “Just nip belowstairs to ask Mrs. Timon.”
“Evening, all. Started without me, I see. Riley, you rotter, you look better than me, and I consider that an insult, I truly do.”
Riley, and the rest of the company, turned in the direction of the sound, to see Clifford Clifford lurching into the room like a man who has been at sea for months and was just now touching down on dry land, holding on to chair backs until he could collapse into his own chair, beside his sister.
“About time you showed up, you pernicious little weasel,” Fanny said from her position at the bottom of the table. “Shameful, a man who can’t hold his spirits. You look terrible.”
And he did. Other than the lurching from chair to chair, Cliff’s dark hair appeared faintly greasy, and one lock hung down unflatteringly over his normally light gray but at the moment quite bloodshot eyes. His cravat was askew, his waistcoat misbuttoned, and his jacket still resided in his room rather than across his shoulders.
Daphne gasped at her beloved son’s disheveled appearance and rose from her seat, grabbing up her serviette and dipping it into the floral arrangement in the middle of the table. “Here, darling, cool water for your aching head,” she said, after racing around to the other side of the table, trying to dab her son’s forehead. “Mama will fix.”
Cliff fought his mother away by turning his head this way and that, and finally by grabbing the serviette and tossing it to the floor. “Don’t do that, Mama, I’m not a child,” he said, and Daphne, accustomed to taking orders from anyone in breeches, promptly returned to her chair and sat down. And proceeded to sulk. Over the course of her marriage, she had quite mastered the injured sulk.
“If you’re not a child, Cliff, I propose you stop behaving like one,” Emma said, resigned to her role as her brother’s keeper.
Cliff took great exception to his sister’s mild rebuke. “Child, am I? I’m head of this household, remember? I’m the man. So what’s he doing, sitting at the head of the table?”
Sir Edgar looked up from his plate—the one that now held three servings of escargot, because he was one, hungry, and two, sitting closest to Riley as he’d tried to leave the room with the rejected dishes.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling at the ladies. “In an attempt to render myself politely deaf during a domestic upheaval that I, as a gentleman, have chosen to ignore—have I missed something?
