The Mark of the Golden Dragon (27 page)

"Indeed. Quite remarkable."

"Yes, I had lunch with him several days ago ... and I am invited to a cotillion on Saturday. I am greatly looking forward to it."

"Hmmm," says Peel, hand on chin, regarding me intently. "As I am out of favor and out of office, I cannot possibly see what part I might play in this."

"Perhaps I can help in that way, Sir, having the Duke's ear, as it were," I reply. "Now, tell me just who has taken your place at the Admiralty?"

A cloud goes over his face.

"A very disagreeable chap named Durward Smollett, a cheap bureaucrat and toady who has kissed his way to the top. First Lord Mulgrave is not a bad sort, but he has surrounded himself with some very marginal people."

"Hmm. Is this Smollett married? Has he a mistress?" I inquire, thinking maybe to attack this person in that direction.

"He is married. His wife is an avid social climber. It is she who has helped him advance."

"Well, we shall see about that," I say, smiling slightly.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I am about to make Mrs. Durward Smollett very happy."

"And how's that?"

"Why, she and her husband are about to receive an invitation to the Duke of Clarence's fine cotillion."

I whisper in Lord Allen's ear, "Richard, get out of the game, and do it
now.
"

We have been sitting at this gaming table for some time now, and Milord Allen has been steadily losing to a very affable and fussy gent who sits across from us, chuckling over his winnings as if he were blessed in all his incompetence at cards by Lady Luck. But I don't think so...

I have become something of a fixture at Lord Allen's side here at the Cockpit ... and ... the object of much discussion...

Who the hell is she, anyway, this so-called Dragon Girl? No one seems to know, but she surely has Lord Allen in thrall, don't she? Nah, to him she's just the tart-of-the-month, you'll see. He'll have a new one soon and she'll be out in the streets again. Some say she is Eurasian—half English, half Japanese or somesuch ... Tsk! That's what happens when you send silly missionaries into those un-Christian lands. The heathens knock up the preacher's daughter and they still go unconverted, the swine. Best not call her a filthy wog, though—not in Lord Allen's hearing, anyway. He's got a hair-trigger temper, as you well know. Oh, yes, I know
that ... hmmm ... Nice ass, though, and she sure don't mind swinging it around, do she? Look at that—looks like her backbone's got a swivel hinge on the lower end, don't it? Ha! You are right ... and she sure don't cover that rump with much cloth, either. I swear you can see right through that thin silk ... Man, I sure wouldn't mind being in Allen's shoes for a few...

And those are just the
male
voices I hear murmuring in the gloom. There are female voices in the chorus, too...

Damned uppity arrogant little bitch. Did you know she had dinner with the Duke of Clarence? Yes, it's true, I saw them right here, not two days ago. No! Yes, I did, and it's rumored she's going to be presented to the King, himself. Something about museum knickknacks she brought back with her from God-knows-where. I know the King is a bit off his wig, but ... A scandal is what I call it—under all that jewelry and makeup and silk, you'll find just a common tramp. You can mark me on that...

You may be mean-spirited harpies, ladies, but you are absolutely right—even though you don't know it for sure. I am just an ordinary Cheapside scammer, lookin' for the main chance and playin' my cards as they are dealt to me ... Well, sort of as they are dealt.

...and she brings that little nigra boy with her all the time, as her servant. You know, the wog with the turban? Disgusting! Well, I don't think it's quite right, don'cha know, the way this place is run and ... Look at that! George Gordon has just brought that big smelly dog of his in here again. God! How can we stand it all? Well, Allen's a lord and Gordon's a lord and they're all bloody lords so they get away with it and with all...

Yes, gossip is grist for the Cockpit's mill, that's for sure. But I must say I like the place—smoke hanging in layers to the ceilings, intrigue, plots, loud swirl of talk-talk-talk, constant talk ... reputations enhanced ... and destroyed, revolutions planned and then crushed, plans made, plots laid...

Yep, my kind of place.

"Get out of the game gracefully, Richard," I whisper as the seemingly hapless winner turns aside to talk to an acquaintance who has stopped by to observe the card play. "Do it now."

"But why?"

"Because he has been dealing seconds ... and I believe the deck is shaved ... and probably marked, as well. Like any good magician, he distracts you at just the right moment. But he does not divert
my
attention. You have lost enough, for now." There is a stack of gold coin, formerly owned by my good Lord Richard Allen, that now rests in front of the seemingly happy but nonplussed winner.

"Well, by God, I'll kill—" Lord Allen snarls, about to rise and grab for his sword in righteous anger.

"No, dear one," I softly say, still playing the compliant courtesan whispering sweet nothings in my lord and master's ear and pushing him back down. "What you should do is issue compliments all around, then rise and go. Sometime later tonight, pick up a few decks of the Cockpit's own house cards and give them to me. The next time we sit down to play with this cheat, we will trim him, and trim him good. Trust me, Richard. Don't you remember my mentor and teacher Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, back there on the
Belle of the Golden West?
That very smooth and skillful gambling man who delivered the promise of a particular kiss into your hands? Hmmm?"

I see Richard recalling the Incident of the Famous Wagered Kiss back there on the Mississippi, which ended with my paying off the wager. It was for a mere kiss—to the winner—which, of course, was Cavalry Captain Lord Richard Allen. So in a quiet pool of clear cool water on that same river, where we were both quite free of any clothing, I kissed him. And just as I did, we were visited by a very unexpected guest...

"Very well," he says, smiling at the recollection and rising with me on his arm, his anger stifled, for the moment, anyway. "Gentlemen, I bid you good night. Thank you for your company." He bows, I cast a few dark glances about, and we leave the table.

As we're wending our way back through the crowd, I hear the same mumblings...
There's the little hussy ... Who does she think she is...?

And when we get to our booth, who do I find but my good John Higgins, who had accompanied me here on Richard's rather mysterious invitation, deep in conversation with a very handsome, elegant, and languid young man. At the man's side is a very big black dog.

"Princess," says Richard, upon our arrival. "May I present my good friend George Gordon and his companion, Boatswain, both fellow schoolmates at Harrow. Boatswain was, by far, the better scholar among the three of us!"

"Right you are, Allen," says the gent, rising and extending his hand to me. "As Boatswain majored in Faithful Service, and we majored in Sloth, Drunkenness, and Lechery. Charmed, my dear." He bows and kisses my hand.

"
Enchanté, m'sieur,
" I murmur, not quite knowing how to handle this and figuring that hiding behind my French would be best.

"My word, Allen, she is quite remarkable. Does it speak English?" From his calling Richard like that, so familiar, I assume that this Gordon shares a similar peerage. It turns out I am right.

"Yes, she has a passing familiarity with our native tongue," says Richard, with a laugh, putting me into the booth such that I slide next to this Lord What's-His-Name Gordon. "I met her as a Shawnee princess in the wilds of America, and she has proved most fascinating in all her aspects." The dog wriggles and thrusts his massive head twixt my knees and looks up at me with big brown eyes.

"Ah, a girl of many parts, then?"

"Many,
many
parts, George, you may rest assured."

The men prattle on about my supposed virtues while I take the dog's face in my hands. I cannot resist a good dog, no matter what the place or the circumstances, and I drop some of my pretense.

"What a fine fellow he is, Sir," I say, petting the dog's broad brow and thinking of my faithful Millie back at Dovecote.

"Yes," says Gordon, reaching over and affectionately stroking the dog. "He, like many dogs, possesses Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, and ... yes ... Courage without Ferocity."

"Well put, Sir," I murmur, as I receive a big, wet kiss from Boatswain's tongue. "He is so much more sweet than any actual Bo'sun I have ever met."

"And well said, Miss," says Gordon. "All the Virtues of Man without his Vices, as it were."

"Ha!" Allen laughs, his arm comfortably about my neck. "You must hear this one. When we were at Harrow, the old schoolmasters refused to let any dogs on the premises, and so poor Boatswain was banished. So challenged, old Gordon here went out and got himself a bear ... yes, an actual bear cub, and brought him into our rooms! Ha! That put those schoolmarmish noses into a bit of a twist, not having the foresight to banish bears as well as dogs from their holy environs."

"Truth be told," says George Gordon. "Little Hugo was quite a delight."

"Yes, he was," agrees Allen, somewhat ruefully. "Till the brute got big enough to eat us out of house and home."

"Right. And big enough to beat either of us to a draw in the way of wrestling. Now he bothers the chickens and geese up at Newstead Abbey, happy as any bruin on this earth."

"Good old Hugo," says Allen, raising his glass. "To a noble bear."

"Hear, hear!" and the toast is drunk to an absent bear.

"Now, Allen," says Gordon. "Back to your little friend here."

At that, I snuggle deeper into Richard's side, put on the big eyes, and wait.

"Has Samuel seen her? I must suspect he has. Tell me, dear, do you play a dulcimer? Do you know a Kubla Khan? And are you an Abyssinian maid?"

What?
I am confused.

Higgins, seated on the other side of this George fellow, comes to my rescue.

"I'm afraid, Sir," he says with a slight cough, "that Mr. Coleridge has been sent off to Malta ... for reasons of health, and really cannot have been acquainted with our young miss here, however apt the allusions might be."

"Reasons of Health! Ha!" exclaims Gordon. "They're just trying to dry out the poor sod. It's said he's up to two quarts of laudanum a week now!"

Two quarts of tincture of opium! Good Lord, is the man a racehorse? Has he any mind left at all?

"Yes, it is a shame," agrees Higgins, who has been my good guide through the perilous waters of temptation these many years when my weak self was sometimes prone to fall under the baleful influence of various substances offered to me. "I have seen many wasted lives."

"Well, it shan't get us, shall it, John?" says Gordon, rising and bowing to those assembled. "It grows late and it seems the place is quieting down. May I ask that your Mr. Higgins be allowed to accompany me back to my rooms, as we have much to discuss in the way of poetry, philosophy, and mutual friends?"

I nod, with a knowing look at Higgins. His returning look says,
This man is well known in the arts and letters world. He could be very, very valuable to us in our current endeavors.

"Of course, George," says Allen. "I shall be delighted to see the young lady back to her ship."

Have fun, Higgins...

"So how do you know all these people, Higgins?" I ask. We are taking our supper together in my cabin. He's dressed to the nines for he will be going out on the town later, and I am dressed in my black burglar's garb because I will be going out on the town, too ... or, more precisely, on
top
of the town. "This Lord Gordon you went off with last night and ... and this Cold-Ridge person you both spoke of at our table...?"

"Ah, yes ... well, George Gordon—Thank you, Ravi—Ahem ... well, yes, he is more often referred to as Lord Byron, for, indeed, he holds that title. And as for knowing them ... Well, Miss, you know I once was employed in Lord Hollingsworth's household..."

I nod at that, eyebrows raised.

"...and in that capacity, when it was time for young York Hollingsworth to go off to school at Harrow, I was sent along as valet to the young man, and I must say I enjoyed our time there most immensely."

"Yes," I comment, a bit sardonically. "Nothing like let ting the lads off the farm for a bit of frolic in the city to get the young blood going."

"True, Miss," Higgins says, smiling at the recollection. "The future Lord Byron was there, as well as many others. Percy Shelley, for one, though not at that particular school, was part of the literary life of London, and a glittery life it was. It was a very liberal gathering of minds, and I was not excluded from the ... conversations."

"And how, my dear Higgins, did you manage to attain such an education so that you were able to hold your own with these young literary lions? Hmmm?"

"Well might you ask, Miss. You see, Lord Hollingsworth had an extensive library at his estate, and by the time I was twelve, I had read just about every volume in it. I was translating Cicero when the good Lord Hollingsworth died."