Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“Do try to control yourself,” I said. “You will hurt his feelings.”

“What is that?”

“ Ursus arctos arctos. The European brown bear. You may refer to him as Professor, or, if you do not like the honorary, you may call him Earl Honeycoat. He’s not really an earl. That’s just a name.”

“Why are you here, Lord Byron? You’re drunk.”

“Usually. But there’s a murderer about, and I feared you might be in mortal danger. My gallant friend and I rode to your rescue, because we are heroes.”

She gasped a couple of deep breaths, recoiling from the bear and trying to recompose herself. “That’s why you brought that animal to my home?”

“That’s the most honorable reason.”

“No one poses any danger to me, excepting you, and possibly your pet,” she told me. “Your presence here is a scandal, especially after your visit yesterday with the constable. I fear this will be the subject of much gossip among the other girls, and may harm my prospects.”

“Your prospects?” I asked. “But why should you need a man?”

“We’ve already had this conversation,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me what I need.”

“If what you need is a respectable marriage you do yourself injury by wandering unsupervised in the dubious company of Leif Sedgewyck,” I said. “I am convinced he’s responsible for the plague of violence that has torn Cambridge asunder.”

“Mr. Sedgewyck? A murderer? That’s absurd. Mr. Sedgewyck is the portrait of propriety. Nobody would accuse you of being anything similar, Lord Byron.”

“I should hope not.”

“Mr. Sedgewyck took his leave at the front door, so as not to allow others to cast aspersions,” she said. “But they will certainly be cast in the wake of your arrival.”

“Let them. I enjoy aspersions.”

“Not everyone shares your appetite for notoriety.”

I grabbed her around the waist. “I have appetites for all sorts of things.”

“You ought to have stayed away, Lord Byron.” Her white skin flushed red up from her chest to her cheeks. Her breathing was rapid, and I could hear her heart pounding as I pressed her against me.

“I couldn’t stay away. You’re so beautiful.” I moved my face close to her neck and took in the scent of her skin and her hair.

“Why do men always tell girls that they’re pretty?” she said. “Why don’t you ever say a woman is bright or talented or witty?”

“We do say that,” I said. “We say it all the time. To the ugly girls. We tell them they have charming personalities and remarkable senses of humor, and we avoid looking directly at them; we fix our gaze on a point behind them, or off someplace to the side, to see if a prettier one is just beyond the periphery of our vision.”

“You must let go of me.”

“I don’t believe you want me to,” I said.

“I do. I think you should. I know you’re a kind of trouble I don’t need.”

“You say that. But your eyes are pleading me to stay.”

She hesitated. “I cannot deny that I have sometimes admired you, from a safe distance.”

I knew it!

“Desire for me is a common affliction of your sex,” I assured her as I exhaled onto her neck. “I’m afraid I only know of one cure for it.”

“I never thought my distant affection put me in danger, because I didn’t imagine that it might someday be noticed, let alone reciprocated. You are so very dashing, and yet you’re such a very awful person.”

“The two qualities are not unrelated.”

She pressed a pale hand against my chest. “Lord Byron, I really think you ought to leave, before we make some irreversible mistake.”

“You’re probably right.” I pulled her body against mine. “But I rarely do the things I ought.”

She stamped her bare foot on the rug. “Why do you insist upon being so impertinent?”

I touched my lips to hers. She didn’t pull away. “Because I know what’s best,” I said. “And I know your prudent impulses cannot stand for long against the force of unreasoning desire.”

“You’re mad,” she said. But her voice was scarcely a whisper; and her protest was weak.

“Probably. I’m also right.” I pressed my mouth hard against hers and briefly lost track of time, place, and several of my senses as I explored. I carried no watch, but when she finally decided to resist my embrace and pry my roving hand off her ass, the sunlight was streaming in the window from a slightly different angle.

I tried to shove her down onto the bed, but she grabbed my arm and pushed me back, toward the door.

“You must leave at once,” she said. “Even with this killer on the loose, you’re still the worst and most dangerous man in Cambridge.”

I relented, hoping for both our sakes that she was right, and I set out to find Leif Sedgewyck, who was obviously probably the murderer. I would vent my fury and disappointment upon him, and perhaps, if I was really piqued, I’d turn loose the Professor and give the bastard what he really deserved.

Am I a villain? Am I a madman? The reader will inevitably ask himself this, and it’s a question I’ve given much consideration to. One fact that may prove relevant: some months prior to the death of Felicity Whippleby, I told my mistress Violet Tower a secret, one so closely held that no soul knew it, save my loyal Joe Murray and, of course, the Professor. I was drunk, which was not unusual, and I was speaking a bit too freely about Mad Jack and my desire to hunt him down and hold him to account for his treatment of me and my mother.

“Your father is dead,” she said as we lounged after an athletic lovemaking session in my rooms at Nevile Court. “He pressed a gun to his head while riding the French harlot he’d spent his last shilling upon.”

I’d never spoken to her of this particular myth about my father, though I’d heard it before. Her knowledge of it surprised me. Perhaps it should not have; I was the subject of much gossip, as Mad Jack was before me. Both of us did everything possible to make ourselves objects of popular fascination.

“Lies and misdirection,” I said. “I will reveal to you the truth. But you must promise to share nothing of what you learn here with any soul.”

She teased my hair with her fingers. “Byron, you’re frightening me.”

“And you should be frightened. I’ve discovered things that are truly terrifying; things that will upset your understanding of the nature of life and death.”

She smoothed my tangled hair and wiped sweat from my pale brow. “You know, when people say you’re mad, I defend you. But I am beginning to think you need some kind of help, perhaps a tonic, or treatment in a sanitarium.”

“Swear to keep my secret.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Very well. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

“Oh, come now! You cannot dangle the possibility of such exclusive knowledge and then withhold it.”

“Then swear.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Swear it.”