Riot Most Uncouth (9 page)

 

Chapter 13

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,

In aid of others' let me shine;

And when, alas! our brains are gone,

What nobler substitute than wine?

—
Lord Byron,
“Lines Inscribed upon a Cup Formed from a Skull”

If I learned one thing from Catherine and her maudlin tendencies, it is this: One must never respond to adversity by retreating into solitude. Others may make untoward imputations; they may think one is ashamed of oneself. Like my father before me, I am proud of my every sin, excess, and abomination, and I respond to rebuke in the only appropriate way: I fling myself headlong into hedonism. It is incumbent upon the unrepentant sinner to flaunt his debauchery.

So, as a means of throwing off the humiliation of my disciplinary hearing and my shabby treatment by Mr. Knifing, I resolved to do precisely that.

I was also emboldened by my congress with Professor Tower's wife, and I was primed for more ambitious pursuits. Specifically, I had devious designs upon Olivia Wright. I wanted to see if she might tell me more about what had happened to Felicity Whippleby, and I wanted to know what she looked like naked. As the world's greatest poet, lover, and practitioner of the deductive art, I was amply qualified to solve the mystery of that woman.

And I had acquired a lovely and unexpected piece of furniture. The feet of it were carved like eagle talons, and the armrests were lions' heads. The upholstery was velvet. This was an object worthy of cradling my noble and talented arse. Such a thing deserved to be celebrated.

Moreover, I'd learned by virtue of painful experience, when I was taken by one of my black moods, I had the most urgent medical need to surround myself with laughter and music and clinking glasses. Otherwise, the whispers inside my head would poison my thoughts and drag me into the abyss, from which I could emerge only with great difficulty and after a prolonged period of convalescence.

For all these reasons, it was requisite upon me to throw a bacchanal.

Since the invitees had barely an afternoon's forenotice of the hastily planned party, only about thirty people showed up, a smallish crowd by my standards, but the celebration was commensurate to my reputation for excess. I'd hired laborers who carefully disassembled and removed the dining table from my banquet room, and they'd rolled up the rug to reveal the polished hardwood floors.

The curtains and linens and window dressings were replaced with velvet and satin, all black, to signify the unhappy course of recent events, as well as my own dark mood and current state of disreputability. I was clad similarly; wearing a crisp, high-collared bespoke black shirt, a deliberate affront to conventional tastes, beneath my evening jacket. I disdained the customary cravat and waistcoat, choosing instead to wear a black silk scarf over my shoulders.

I wore the shirt open at the throat to expose the dramatic concavity of my clavicle, and my jutting collarbones. I was proud of my starved physique, and intended to display it at every opportunity until it softened and swelled from indulgence. When that happened, I would have to quit eating again for a while.

I'd brought in some passable musicians, and the cleared room was a fine space for dancing. Cooks had been busy in my kitchen all afternoon, preparing French and Continental delicacies under the watchful eye of Joe Murray, who was quite competent with a saucepan in his own right. My rooms were bedecked with fresh flowers to an even greater extent than usual.

Preparing an event like this on such an abbreviated schedule was costly, but money was no object to me. Whatever funds I left unspent would be reclaimed by the gentleman from Banque Crédit Française in short order. I considered it my moral duty to waste as much of the bank's money as humanly possible before Mr. Burke managed to claw anything back.

The Professor was uncomfortable in social situations, so he retired early. I opened a couple of cases of the better vintages from my reserves, and greeted attendees from my new magisterial seat while drinking champagne from my most special and macabre of goblets, a thing I call the Jolly Friar.

The Jolly Friar is made from a human skull, less the lower jaw, mounted upon a silver stem. The interior of the cranium is polished to a high sheen, like tortoiseshell. It is an excellent vessel for wine, burgundy, champagne, or any other fine quaffable, and the appearance of the thing shocks and scandalizes many of my acquaintances, which is really the whole point of the thing.

I noted Olivia's arrival, but I ignored her for more than an hour, until she'd had time to get appropriately drunk and mellow. When I figured her thirst for my attention must have grown unquenchable, I shooed my friends from my side and beckoned her over; it was time to overwhelm her defenses.

The first thing she asked was the first thing everybody asks when they see me drinking wine out of the Jolly Friar:

“Where does one acquire such a chalice as that?” She reached out with her fingers as if to touch the bleached bone, but she changed her mind and drew them back.

“I have many such strange and delightful things,” I said. “The silversmith in Nottingham has grown accustomed to my unique orders. I am a man of singular tastes, with access to credit.”

“But where do you get—” Here she paused. “—a skull?”

I waggled the cup at her. “It's quite an easy thing to procure, in fact. There are skulls all around you. To retrieve them, one requires only a sturdy ax, a large pot of boiling water, and a strong stomach.”

“Surely you didn't?”

“His death was for a worthy cause.” I raised the goblet in a silent toast to the splendid fellow who'd given his head to produce such a marvelous object. Felicity Whippleby had been the subject of everyone's conversations all night, and many of my guests had heard about my visit to the murder scene. At the back of my mind, a small, raspy voice counseled me against openly joking about murder. I ignored it.

“I think you mock me, Lord Byron,” said Olivia.

“Only with the greatest affection,” I assured her.

“So tell me the truth?”

I touched my fingers to my lips as if I were swearing an oath. This was a trick, to get her to look at my mouth. “The Byron mansion at Newstead used to be a functioning abbey, and it is still full of relics of its previous, pious occupants,” I said. “I had an idea that the monks had buried a great deal of money on the grounds, so I had the flagging pulled up in the cloisters.”

The girl's eyes widened. “Did you find the treasure?”

I shook my head. “Not a single shilling. But I did find the monks, interred in great stone coffins.”

“Oh my.”

“This fellow's head was by far the largest, a distinction that earned him the right to join me thereafter as my regular companion in revelry and drink. Behold the only skull from which, unlike a living head, whatever flows is never dull.” I tipped the Jolly Friar back, and drank deeply to demonstrate.

Her brow crinkled like lace. “It seems awfully disrespectful.”

“On the contrary. Few of us will be invited to as many parties as the Jolly Friar when we are dead.”

She laughed, and I knew that she'd be mine. Women always swooned at my swashbuckling tales of grave-robbery and corpse defilement. “The Reaper lurks near us, always,” I said, “but there is no reason he oughtn't be pleasant company.”

It might properly be called a sort of irony that Leif Sedgewyck chose that moment to glide into my dining room and approach me through the crowd.

“Lord Byron,” he said. His voice was low and melodious, like an unreasonably self-satisfied cello. “I believe we've met before. My name is Leif Sedgewyck, if you don't remember. I must say that I adored
Hours of Idleness,
and ardently await your next volume.”

Olivia broke her gaze from mine to inspect the interloper, and did not seem displeased by what she saw. Sedgewyck was sober and composed now. No trace remained of the wretched, grieving lover I'd spoken to earlier in the day. Scrubbed and dressed, he cut an impressive figure. His hair was straight and fine and white-blond. His skin was like Italian marble, and his imperious jaw jutted forth like a fjord or the prow of a Viking warship. His smiling mouth was a slash of red, a bloodstain on fresh snow. I locked my gaze with his, and he stared back with eyes like black mirrors that held within them twin reflections of my own clenched teeth. And when those eyes met mine, he looked down, for he was over six feet tall; a gargantuan freak of a man.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I do hope I am not interrupting anything private.”

“The lady and I were having a conversation,” I told him.

“Oh, Byron.” Her hand brushed my elbow. “Mingle with your guests. Don't be an ungracious host.”

“I would never think of misbehaving,” I said. “But Mr. Sedgewyck is not a guest. It is unseemly for him to attend such an event while he is in mourning, it would have been crass of me to disturb his grief with an invitation, and I would never be so rude as to force the coarse company of this disreputable Dutchman upon my distinguished friends.”

Even as I was saying it, I think I was aware that I was making a mistake, and when Olivia's countenance hardened and her lips pressed together, I knew I'd spoiled my chances with her, at least for the night.

“My family earned its fortune in London trade, the same as Mr. Sedgewyck's,” Olivia said. “I'd hate to think I'd inadvertently been inflicting myself upon all these marvelous and cultured people you've gathered here tonight.”

I could feel myself sweating beneath my clothes. Such social errors on my part were atypical, but my usual facility and glibness had been diminished somewhat by my days of sleeplessness and heavy drinking.

“I didn't mean to impugn your family,” I said. “I only meant that Mr. Sedgewyck's decision to appear here unbidden was a coarse and unbecoming behavior.”

At least I'd embarrassed Sedgewyck; spots of pink appeared on his sharp, white cheekbones. “You have me; I am here uninvited. When I learned of this event, I could scarce resist the chance to spend an evening in the presence of one of the great literary figures of our age.”

I remained still, so as not to make any gesture that might be mistaken for an offer of absolution.

“I'm sure such minor errors in protocol will be forgiven by our magnanimous host,” Olivia said. Her voice had a cold edge to it as she addressed me, but she was softly touching Sedgewyck's arm.

The fact that I'd fumbled my seduction and lost my grasp on the girl made my desire to conquer her all the more urgent, and my distaste for Sedgewyck was amplified by my awareness that I might have been able to get inside of her if that lumbering Dutch bastard had had the good sense to stay away from where he wasn't wanted. I had my pistols tucked inside my waistcoat, and I would have relished the opportunity to put them to use. But such action seemed unlikely to achieve my desired ends; Olivia wasn't the type to be aroused by a display of wanton violence.

He apologized again, and when I failed to absolve him, he grabbed my hand and gave it a vigorous, friendly shake. His grip was dry and cool, like the skin of a reptile, but when he released me, I rubbed my palm with my handkerchief anyway. I held the soiled rag at arm's length, and Joe Murray appeared to carry the thing off to the furnace. He did not speak as he did this; unlike some people, my butler felt no need to interrupt the conversation.

“I must compliment you on your ambulation this evening,” Sedgewyck said with a malicious nod. “You are quite spry for a cripple.”

“I am not crippled,” I said.

“But it's true you are—” He licked his lips. “—malformed.” Sedgewyck let the word roll around on his tongue, and I was so infuriated that I nearly bashed him over the head with the Jolly Friar. I held back only because I didn't want to damage the skull or waste the wine it contained.

“Many brilliant men have secret vulnerabilities,” Olivia said. The lovely corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and I decided this was mockery at my expense, which made me want to send all my guests home and throw her down on my bed.

Sedgewyck bent over and squinted at my weak left foot. “It isn't really much of a secret, though,” he said.

“We do not discuss that,” I told them both. “I am quite strong. Any of the Eton boys who had the misfortune of boxing against me can attest to that.”

“And yet you look so very frail,” Sedgewyck said. “Thin. Sickly, I daresay.”

“You oughtn't dare, you son of a bitch.” I stretched my spine to look taller, but I failed to match his height. “We can brawl right here, if you'd enjoy a demonstration of my fitness and haleness, right in your goddamn teeth. I will break you open and spill you in front of all my guests, and they shall know that you amply deserved such treatment.”

Sedgewyck took a step back; he managed to conjure an expression that might have looked, to a bystander, like genuine shock. “I don't mean to be rude. I was only curious.”

“Well, your curiosity has been indulged. I think you ought to leave,” I told him.

“Don't be cross,” Olivia said.

“Byron has been a gracious host, and has been most kind to an unbidden visitor in his home,” Sedgewyck said. “Thank you, my friend, for your patience, and for the lovely poems.”

“No thanks are required, now or hereafter,” I assured him. “If you never speak to me again, I shall not think you impolite for it. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

Sedgewyck turned back to Olivia. “The hour grows late, and I would be happy to see you home, if you require an escort.”

“I'm sure I can find the way on my own,” she said.

“But there are dangers in the night.” He leaned toward her so she could better see his sensuous red lips. “And even if my protection is unnecessary, I'm sure my company will not be unpleasant.”