The Pleasure Merchant (26 page)

It was a wild ride through the empty streets, the horse in high spirits, and Tom feeling the whole time like he needed to get off the creature’s back to relieve his aching bladder. The press subsided only when he got to Mr. Wallace’s house in Gracechurch Street, and pounded upon the door until a light appeared in a window. The lawyer’s housekeeper appeared, a foul-faced crone who had seen at least a hundred years of service, and demanded to know what Tom was about.

“Drunk are ye?” she shouted. “Get away! An honorable lawyer lives here!”

“I was looking for Mr. Wallace, not an honorable lawyer!”

She gave him an appraising look, then favored him with a smile.

“Who sent you?”

“Mr. Bewit. He is… ill. Deathly so.” Whether or not he believed it, Tom figured it made for a good story. “He demanded I retrieve Mr. Wallace immediately.”

“Hmm.” She disappeared, and not long after, the front door opened. Tom was relieved to see Mr. Wallace in his dressing gown, even if the bleary-eyed man looked mightily annoyed.

“
Deathly
ill, is it?” was his greeting.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam attends him,” said Tom. “He begged me come to you—said it was of the utmost importance.”

“All right, all right. Come inside, while I get dressed and collect his file. Can your horse carry us both?”

“I could not say. Getting here on the creature’s back was nothing short of a miracle. I never really learned to ride.”

“Then I’ll ride Blackie and you can follow after, on Sancho—my mule,” he said. Tom’s expression must have betrayed him, as Mr. Wallace laughed. “It’s the wee hours, boy. No one will see you.”

The warmth inside Mr. Wallace’s respectably middle-class foyer made Tom sleepy. It had been an exceptionally long night. He had not made it home from his meeting with the one who had called herself Miss Rasa until one in the morning, and now it was close to four. He leaned against the wall, intending just to rest himself, but jolted awake when once again Mr. Wallace joined him.

“Everything is in readiness,” he said, shrugging into his coat. “Sancho is gentle, you shall get home safe enough.”

“My thanks, Mr. Wallace,” said Tom, rubbing at his eyes. “I will see you there shortly.”

It was at a much more meditative pace that Tom returned to 12 Bloomsbury Square. It was still dark, it being mid-winter, and lights still blazed in many rooms, including Mr. Bewit’s. Tom did not know what this foretold, but as soon as he was inside a tired-faced Mrs. Jervis said their master was no better, had sent everyone away, and was with Mr. Wallace now.

“Go on up,” she said. “We were told to send you once you were home—that you did not return with Mr. Wallace concerned him greatly.”

“Might I have something to eat and drink?” begged Tom.

There was some cold wassail in the cauldron, but it did him well enough with a crust of bread and a morsel of cheese. He bolted it, thanked Mrs. Jervis—who was uncharacteristically kind about the whole thing—and feeling much restored, he went up, only to bump into Mr. Wallace as the lawyer was leaving Mr. Bewit’s room.

“I see now why you were willing to ride out at this hour on such a cold night.” His tone was not as warm as it had been. “Wise lad. Well, go in. Let
him
tell you.”

More than a little confounded, Tom bowed and went straight in. Mr. Fitzwilliam had rejoined them at some point, and was right by Mr. Bewit’s side. But when Tom met the doctor’s eye, he looked away, and shook his head.

“No,” said Tom, glancing at Mr. Bewit. The man looked, if anything, worse.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam,” breathed Mr. Bewit, “please… you have done all you can do. Leave me with Tom, I must… I must speak with him alone.”

“Sir, what—” Tom began, but allowed himself to be interrupted by his gentle master.

“My hour draws near,” said Mr. Bewit, as Mr. Fitzwilliam left the room. “Tom, I would unburden myself to you. Listen to an old man.”

“With pleasure, Mr. Bewit.”

“You say that now… but I have wronged you. Tom! It was I who got you sacked. After a fashion.” He winced. “Last year, a mutual friend invited Mr. Mauntell and myself to play cards with him at Brooks’s for a night. I was… very taken with the club, as was Robert. Afterwards, we both spoke to Mr. Orgueil, privately, and he assured us that everyone had agreed to put our names on the list. We had both behaved so prettily, and been so free with our betting, that all agreed we might make valuable additions, when such a time came as they had room for us.

“I had long been jealous of Mr. Mauntell. He is an independent man with a handsome family, beholden to no one. He has everything I have ever wanted, and it ate at me like a worm at the heart of an apple that he might also be first admitted to Brooks’s, on top of all that.

“I managed to discreetly ask my friend who was first on the list, and learned that he had an idea that Robert, due to his deeper pocketbook and better connections, would come up first. God, how it tormented me! I could think of nothing else. It seems so silly to me now—but foolishness has ever been my master.

“I could not turn my mind from the subject, and in my cups one night at my former club I mentioned all this to an old school chum of mine, a Mr. Ringsby. I said I would give all I had and everything I could borrow to knock Mauntell out of the running—permanently, if it could be arranged. Ringsby gave me a queer look, and laughed, and said if I cared about it so much I ought to speak with a man named Mangum Blythe.”

That name again! Concerned as he was for his master, Tom couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement at realizing he was at long last to have the full truth of the curious matter.

“I asked him who on earth Mangum Blythe might be, having never heard the man’s name in my life. Ringsby said he was a man who… obtained things for people. Things they wanted. Things that would give them pleasure. Ringsby had hired Mr. Blythe himself, and had nothing but good things to say about his services—and very generously gave me the man’s card, which he had in his wallet. It had printed on it only ‘
Mangum Blythe
,’ and his address.

“I thanked him, pocketed the card, and went home, pleading too much wine. Really, though, I was oppressed by my thoughts. A man who could get
anything
for
anyone
—if it would make them happy! It seemed incredible, a hoax. Perhaps that’s why it took weeks before I called on Mr. Blythe.

“When I did, the house looked ordinary enough from the outside, but I was shown in with as much grace and fanfare as I might be in any house in Curzon Street. And there, in a sitting room fit for a duke, I met Mangum Blythe.

“At first, I found him very charming… but is not Lucifer supposed to be charming?” Mr. Bewit coughed, then relaxed. “Well, I was not wrong—Blythe is a devil, he had a devil’s easy manners and grace about him. And when he spoke—why, of what he spoke, and so casually!

“I am ashamed to say in the moment I admired him, for when I asked him of past successes, he told me such stories! When I was at last satisfied with his ability and his discretion, I told him all, at his behest. He listened attentively to my problem, and when I was done, he spoke no judgment of me, only asked me a few questions about myself, my family, before admitting what I wanted could be done, and easily enough. Alas—what folly! Tom, it was for counsel I came to him, and yes, he gave it to me—but better had he told me to go home and think on more wholesome matters!”

Tom, though fascinated, feared for Mr. Bewit’s health—he was looking paler by the breath. He made to rise and call for Mr. Fitzwilliam, but Mr. Bewit caught his arm with surprising strength.

“Tom—listen to me! You must
listen
. Mangum Blythe indulged my weakness; furthered my vanity by taking five hundred pounds from me in order to affect what I wished. He would not tell me how, but said to expect results within a fortnight. Well, all I had to do at that point was go home and live my life. Ten days later…
you
arrived on my doorstep, standing behind Mr. Mauntell, who, as you know, made quite a spectacle of himself.

“I was shocked—not by Mr. Mauntell’s misfortune, but by your own. You see, Mr. Blythe had told me he sought never to harm anyone not directly involved with a client. So, when Mr. Dray dismissed you, I took pity on you. And right I was to do so, for you have become my closest confidante, and now you have revealed to me something I never knew: my daughter is alive, for surely it must be she who impersonated my own son!”

“Mr. Bewit, we don’t know for sure if—”

“I know! I am certain!”

“But if he employed your daughter, why would he not mention it to you?”

“Perhaps Mr. Blythe did not know, or perhaps he thought it a colossal joke. Who can say? He is a devil, as I have said. Whatever the case might be, you must see why I am so disgusted to hear my dear, forgotten Alula is now working for such a scoundrel. Dressing as a boy, gadding about—and God only knows what else! I shudder to think of it… Mr. Blythe let me know in no uncertain terms that he was capable of realizing the
desires
of anyone—and in
every way
. How can I, a man of the world, believe her innocence has not been outraged?”

Tom saw the man’s point. Why, the master to whom Miss Rasa had so casually alluded might even now be using her person for more sinister purposes than hornswoggling innocent apprentices!

“The Foundling Hospital—curse them! Let them all be damned. They assured me that girls in their care would not end up in such… circumstances. Had I but known… even though she… oh, how I have prayed for her tonight, as Mr. Fitzwilliam doctored me; as I waited for Mr. Wallace. Not for her virtue—only for her safety. Tom, if you but knew what Mangum Blythe truly is! What he did! What he was
willing
to do! Why, he told me that once, he—”

Mr. Bewit began to cough, and so long did he cough that he began to retch. Tom gave him a glass of wine, which helped him recover, but before he could ask several burning questions, such as why Mr. Bewit had abandoned his daughter in the first place, his master began to speak again.

“My hour draws near, I can feel it. I have mused too long on Mangum Blythe, and must move on to more pressing matters. But you will soon understand why I have spent so much time telling you of that devil.

“Lest anyone try to rob you of what is now yours, I made Mr. Wallace promise me he would be your advocate. Tom—I have altered my will. The whole of my personal wealth is seventeen thousand pounds, or thereabouts, in cash, in the safe in my office. Everything else is Hallux’s. I withdrew everything I had after he agreed to help the family, and saved the rest through economy over the last few years, so that Callow would have something if Hallux sired an heir. That doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I intend to split it between my son… and
you
.”

Tom gasped. Half of seventeen thousand pounds! That amount of money would make him comfortably independent for the rest of his life. Why, he would be able to live as a gentleman, and never work again!

“I know, it must come as a shock to you,” wheezed Mr. Bewit, interrupting his thoughts, “but though I told Mr. Wallace the particulars of your story tonight, he says there is no easy way to give any of the money to poor Alula, her being legally if not actually deceased. Oh, Tom—good, trustworthy Tom—to you alone can I entrust this task.” He inhaled wetly. “Mr. Wallace will give you ten thousand pounds upon my death. Then you must find Alula. I believe seven thousand pounds will allow her to sever her ties with Mangum Blythe and live as a gentlewoman. She will never again need to sell her… oh, my poor girl!” He grasped Tom’s hand with fever-strength. “You will of course keep the rest for yourself—it will serve you well as a nest-egg. Promise me you will do this!”

Tom pushed away an ungrateful sensation as he nodded. Three thousand pounds was hardly a stingy inheritance, especially given he was inheriting it from someone unrelated to him. Just the same, he had been much richer not half a minute before…

“Of course,” said Tom. “You are very generous, sir. I will see this noble thing you wish done with all possible haste.”

“Good lad.” Mr. Bewit seemed much more at ease, yet failing fast. “Find Mangum Blythe—find Alula—and give the money to her as soon as you are able. And tell her… tell my daughter… tell her she had a father, and he loved her dearly, and always wished her well in spite of… everything.”

That struck Tom as strange, but it was obviously not the time to press Mr. Bewit. “I will.”

“Thank you. I… I am grateful. And now… I have a final boon to beg…”

“Anything, sir.”

“Fetch Callow and Hallux.” He sighed, looking weaker now that he had unburdened himself. “I would say my… goodbyes.”

“Surely—”

“Please, Tom. Mr. Fitzwilliam would not tell me to settle my affairs if he did not… not think…” And he began again to cough.

Tom stood, nearly upending the chair in his haste. Hallux he woke first, much to the man’s chagrin, but he certainly moved fast enough when he heard the news. Callow was another story. Tom shook him and shook him, but when the boy finally came to his senses, he laughed off Tom’s words as a practical joke, and would not get up. Tom tried, but there was nothing for it. Callow rose at noon the following day, far too late to speak one last time with his father.

***

When Tom awoke to a cold rain steadily spattering his small window, he thought it must be morning, his room was so dark—but his mantle-clock said it was quarter past two in the afternoon.

He winced and groaned as he got up, every muscle sore from his late-night ride, and his hands were clumsy as he dressed, his mind as foggy as the windowpane. He was still tired. He felt unalloyed gratitude toward Mrs. Jervis for letting him sleep, and reassigning whatever needed doing to someone who hadn’t been up the entire night running all over London. But when he emerged to find the house in mourning, and every person busier than they could manage, he felt it very odd indeed that he had not been awakened. Odder still was how none of the other staff seemed to meet his eye when he spoke to them. He didn’t want to give them the pleasure of asking what it was they would not say aloud. Instead, he asked for Mrs. Jervis, and was told she was across the back yard, in the laundry.