Unspeakable Vice: A Victorian mm Romance by Quinn Wilde

Author:Quinn Wilde [Wilde, Quinn]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2021-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Sebastian Loses the Plot

I recovered. Barely.

“Ah, I am well acquainted with Major Pope. He has vanquished me at billiards may times. But he has kept his son hidden from me until now. I recommended a young man for the major’s employment, one Mr. Andrew Brodie.”

“I keep as far away from my father’s business doings as possible. I am a lazy fellow except when it comes to my studies, reading novels, and the like.” Ah, now I recalled where I’d seen this man’s face. A sketch in the newspaper. I knew his name, of course. But who peruses the political pages looking at illustrations of men in power? They were inevitably fat, dull, and bewhiskered. Lord William Carmichael was a notable exception. In life, the politician possessed a power he did not in pen and ink.

I held Bear against me as a furry shield. “I would shake your hand, sir, but I’m afraid you’d get a handful of dog hair,” I said, brushing myself, and setting my dog down on the carpet.

“Sebastian! Do be careful with that dog! What if he chases Nancy?” said Mrs. Elliot.

“Nancy?” I asked.

“My cat.”

“Mama, you didn’t bring your cat with your?” asked Anthea.

“Trust Nancy with my servants? Absolutely not!”

“Mama, I forbade Claire to bring Fudge.”

“Fudge is a dog!”

“Bringing a cat is different? Where is Nancy now?”

“I told Sarah to feed her in the scullery. Poor thing! The nasty rats were chasing her.”

“Mama, the servants have enough to do.”

I was grateful for the bickering so I had time to compose myself. Lord William Carmichael smiled, walked about the drawing room with his hands clasped behind, and finally paused, gazing out the largest window. He seemed to float above the carpet and the mundane concerns of women, cats, mice, muddy dogs, and my untied shoes.

I had hoped to confront him as a formidable opponent, but felt anything but. I wished we were playing billiards or cards. My father had a fighting chance against his lordship in a game of brute skill, just like I did with my fists against Clifford and Weston. In this game of social chess, I felt insurmountably over-matched.

For the entire duration of the passing of saucers, sandwiches, and cups, his lordship juggled witticisms and compliments in a way I had never seen a politician do in mixed company. He did not bore the ladies talking about the Suez Canal and Irish Home Rule. He possessed the rare gift of being humorous without resorting to mockery and asked me about school without making what I was learning seem ridiculous or beneath the cares of the weighty world. When I selected a scone and spooned jam and cream upon it, I took too large a bite, and strawberry-stained crumbs sprinkled upon my trousers. He made no clumsy jokes, but rather seemed completely unconscious of my faux pas.

Claire, instead, laughed at the jam incident. A flash of color came to the pallid girl’s cheek. She seemed to care for the man a great deal, which made the farce I was engaging in all the worse.

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