David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

Lucy did not much like being told what to do by a stranger, even if that stranger was the prime minister. “I shall certainly keep your advice in mind.”

“You would be wise to do so,” he said. “Have you any idea who are the players in this game? Have you any notion of what this Ned Ludd is?”

“No, Mr. Morrison did not tell me.”

“Of course he did not. It is not for you to know. Allow me to assure you that your ignorance is a gift. Relish it, and seek to learn no more. I say that out of concern.”

Lucy remained motionless, daring to neither move nor speak. Could it be true? Was she truly risking her life if she pursued the matter? And yet, what choice had she? She could hardly cower in fear while Emily was locked away in some unimaginable dungeon. Nor could she turn away from events of global magnitude when she had some role to play. Mr. Morrison and the prime minister, in their arrogance, decided that the future of Britain depended upon the enslavement of its laborers, but Lucy did not believe that. It was true that she did not know precisely what Ned Ludd wanted, but did it matter? Whatever his nature, was not he in the right and the Rosicrucians in the wrong, and so was she not obligated to stand with Ludd?

“By gad, Spence, do you mean to bore that poor girl all night?”

Lucy looked up, and walking toward her was—and there could be no mistaking him, even though she had never seen his face before except in prints and woodcuts—the Prince Regent, directly in front of her, gesturing toward her with a wineglass. Lucy was about to meet the Prince of Wales himself. Yet it was not he that made her uneasy. On one side of the prince stood a remarkably handsome, well-appointed man she did not know, and on the other side of that man stood George Gordon, Lord Byron.

24

A BRIEF ROUND OF INTRODUCTIONS FOLLOWED, THOUGH LUCY would later have a difficult time remembering the specific details of what was said and who said it. For here, shaking her hand, was the Prince Regent, the man who would someday be king of England, who now was all but king. To his left was a man of almost equal fame, the notorious George “Beau” Brummell, the prince’s close friend, and the person who, through example, had single-handedly changed men’s fashions in London. Owing to Brummel’s precedent, men now wore trousers rather than breeches, close-fitting coats, and exquisitely knotted cravats. It was said that dozens of men came to his home each day simply to watch him dress, a process that was rumored to last hours. Lucy had read in one of the magazines that Brummell employed three separate tailors for the construction of his gloves alone.

And then there was Byron, dressed like the other three gentlemen in buff pants, white shirt, and dark jacket. He, however, wore no cravat, and kept his shirt open, his chest wildly exposed. He was, without doubt, the most beautiful man in the room, and it seemed that every woman there looked at nothing but him. It therefore surprised Lucy that he looked only at her, and there was such an intensity in his gaze that it embarrassed her. Everyone in the room must see how he gazed at her, and she felt herself grow hot and dizzy all at once.

For a moment, she thought that Byron would take her in his arms there, that he would kiss her before everyone, and if he made the attempt, would she be able to stop him? Would she wish to try?

She did not have the opportunity to find out, for, after waving off the prime minister, the Prince Regent stepped in front of Byron and up to Lucy.

“I thought I knew all the young ladies of note in London,” the prince said to her. “How can it be that we have not met?”

Lucy curtsied and stammered out an introduction. Only a few days ago, she had been trapped in Nottingham, victim of her uncle’s stinginess and Mrs. Quince’s cruelty, and now, here she was, meeting the Prince Regent himself.

“Your Majesty is too kind,” said Lucy.

“Too drunk, I should think,” said Mr. Brummell, coming closer and examining Lucy as though she were a painting at an exhibition. “She is pretty enough, I suppose, but no more. I cannot see why she commands your attention.”

Lucy felt as though she had been slapped. She had seen the cruelty of fashionable life in London—the barbs and asides and whispers behind fans. Lucy never doubted that fashionable ladies insulted her from a safe distance, but she never dreamed that anyone would speak to her in such a manner to her face.

The moment hung in the air. Perhaps it was only a second or two, but for Lucy time ground to a halt as she struggled to understand how she must respond to this abuse. Should she do nothing and show herself a meek and toothless thing? She wanted to. More than anything she wanted to walk away, but it seemed to her that there would be more than her share of struggles ahead, and she must learn to show courage when the situation called for it, not merely when she had prepared for it.

“If the prince wishes to speak to me in any manner he chooses, it is my duty as his subject to submit,” said Lucy. “You, sir, are rude.”

Brummell took a step back and put a hand to his mouth in mock horror. “It is like the cobra of India. Pleasing to behold, but deadly in its strike.”

“Shut up, George,” said Byron.

“Mon dieu!” cried Brummell. “Your Majesty, this upstart just addressed you by your Christian name and told you to shut up. I think it is time to have him dragged away in chains.”

The prince laughed and winked at Lucy. “When there is conversation among three men named George, there is never an end to the confusion.”

“The confusion ends,” observed Byron, “when two have titles, and one is a commoner.”

Brummell touched his fingers to his chest. “The entire world is commoner than I.”

The prince laughed again and turned to Lucy. “He is a buffoon, but he amuses me. I am sorry if he injured you with his inappropriate tongue. How shall I punish him?”

Lucy looked at Mr. Brummell long and hard, and thought she saw something there very sad, like a piece of crystal—beautiful and exquisite, but so delicate that it must, in time, shatter. “I believe,” she said, “he shall punish himself in due course.”

There was an awkward moment of silence among the three. Then Byron turned to Brummell. “If this lady says such a thing to you, then you are a fool to ignore it.” To Lucy he said, “It is time to dance.”

Before she could object, or perhaps before she could have time to decide if she wished to object, Lucy was upon the dance floor with Byron, lost in a massive swirl of expensive clothes and even more expensive perfumes. One could hardly hear the music, fine though it was, over the low hum of conversation, for every couple spoke in low and meaningful tones, and Lucy wondered who around her was planning an illicit assignation. Everyone? Was she? She could hardly think so, and yet here was Byron, and for all the terrible things he had said and done, she enjoyed his company, enjoyed being near him. And she understood all too well that his beauty was, in itself, a kind of magic.

“You have no idea how I’ve missed you, Lucy,” he said to her in a low whisper, almost a growl. “I’ve thought of you every minute.”

Lucy said nothing. Part of her found him revolting, disgusting, vile. Another part, however, saw him as something far greater.

“You are not still angry with me, I hope? You cannot be jealous of that girl at Newstead, as you had already rejected me.”

Lucy could only shake her head. That he would say such a thing, imagine that somehow she had come to see his way of life as normal as he did, struck her as amazing. However what would have seemed like madness only weeks before—spells and talismans and magical components—was now perfectly normal. Byron’s own dissolute life must seem the same to him. And if it did seem normal to him, no more than the way he lived, then did it make him evil? If he saw no harm in what he did, and no one resented him for his actions, was he a bad man or merely a different kind of man?