The Pleasure Merchant (41 page)

“And you consider
yourself
disinterested?”

“Not at all. The girl is my ward, and more importantly, she is my friend.”

“She’s my friend too!” Or, at least, he’d thought so…

“Ah—but you don’t wish to keep things that way.” He smiled again, that infuriating smile. “I am perfectly content with my relationship with Miss Rasa as it is.”

“And what sort of relationship would that be?”

Mr. Blythe’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Should I be?” Tom had to know the truth of it. “What is between you?”

“Why… our own business. Nothing more, and—I assure you—nothing less.”

The way he said it made the little hairs rise on the back of Tom’s neck. The bastard had clearly had his dear Tabula—taken advantage of her as only a man could. He’d crushed her in his arms, whispered lies in her ears, and…

“Scoundrel!” Tom cried. “You are no gentleman, Mangum Blythe!”

The man was now fully as serious as he had been droll. “I spoke to you once before about insulting me in my own home. It is time for you to go.” He stalked over to the door and opened it wide. “Good day to you, Mr. Dawne. You may have no more of my time—for free, at least. Of course, my door is always open to clients, but you must understand, my fees are rather higher than you—”

“I have money,” snarled Tom.

“I’m not at all surprised to hear it,” said Mr. Blythe wryly. “But as it still rests in your pocket instead of my own, you must go, or I shall be forced to summon the authorities to remove you.”

Without another word or even a backwards glance, Tom stomped out of Mr. Blythe’s home and up the lane into the street. Once out of sight, he allowed himself to stomp his feet and utter a cry of frustration and rage, wishing all sorts of misfortunes upon Mr. Blythe—poxes and catastrophes and depredations and ailments. In that moment, he would have sold his soul to the Devil for revenge upon the man, if said Devil had presented himself, contract in one hand, and pen in the other.

It simply wasn’t fair that Mr. Blythe should have everything, and he so little. Tom was an honest man, as nice a fellow as you could hope to meet, whereas Mangum Blythe was a pimp, probably a whore himself,
and
a cheat, and
also
a thief. Yes, a thief—for what Mr. Blythe possessed, he had gotten by stealing. He had stolen from Tom, after all—stolen away his apprenticeship, all for some silly lark of Mr. Bewit’s to join some stupid club, which had in turn stolen Mr. Bewit’s happiness away, as the poor, silly man had told Tom on his very deathbed.

And worst of all, Mangum Blythe had stolen Tabula. He had taken an innocent girl and corrupted her, and now no one but an equally corrupt person would satisfy her unnatural lusts. Not only that, but he gloated over it—
reveled
in it.

No longer! Tom wouldn’t stand for it. Mangum Blythe needed to be taken down a peg. Several, if Tom could manage it—and manage it he would.

Standing there in the street, Tom vowed he would ruin Mangum Blythe’s happiness, as Mangum Blythe had ruined Tom’s. He had a fortune at his disposal, and he had his leisure to prepare the perfect plot. He could do it.

He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when, but Tom would have his vengeance upon Mangum Blythe.

Tom scarcely noticed when the year ended and the new one began. He was too busy mulling over the problem of how to revenge himself on Mangum Blythe.

It was a tricky thing—very tricky. If he had wanted to simply kill the man, he would have had an easier time of it. Hiring a thug to slit the cad’s throat would take relatively little effort. But Tom wanted to bring Mangum Blythe low, as he himself had been brought low by the man. And he wanted Blythe to know it was Tom Dawne who had triumphed over him.

For a time, Tom kept to his chambers, eating the meals his cook prepared for him and the wine his serving-girl brought, and enjoying none of it. But when no brilliant schemes came to him, Tom decided being cooped up was stifling his imagination, and he went out, got drunk… and stayed drunk.

It was during this period of dissolution that Tom fell in with a few young men who also frequented the public houses and wine-shops close to Tom’s chambers in Covent Garden. Silly, idle, vain, and moneyed, they were twice as worthless as Callow had ever been, but Tom didn’t mind. He was pleased when they solicited him to join them, and honored to be so quickly accepted as a part of their group. He wasn’t stupid—he knew their affection had as much to do with his pocketbook as his charming manners, but they were enjoyable enough company. And in the end, they provided him with the solution he’d been looking for.

They were eating some cold chicken and ham in a relatively sedate tavern when a respectable older gentleman and his wife came in for a late supper. They were dressed for the opera, and made a handsome couple. At first, Tom and his fellows took no notice of the pair… but when it became apparent that his table’s rowdiness and mirth were distasteful to the new arrivals, things got interesting.

“Have you noticed how that cunt and his cunt wife keep staring at us?” announced Guy Elton, who Tom felt was without a doubt the most feckless of his new crew. “I wonder why they’re so interested in us?”

The couple looked away immediately, turning back to their food, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

“Perhaps they wish us to join them?” said Daniel Harvey. “What do you think, Mr. Dawne?”

“Perhaps,” said Tom. He was tipsy, full, and—for once—had no quarrel with the world. “Let’s go over and see.”

The quartet lurched their way over to the couple as the tavern quieted around them. The woman looked nervously at her husband; her husband looked at them, and tried to put on a brave face.

“Hello, lads,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“My friend Elton here thinks you don’t like him,” said Frank Bottomly. “You’ve hurt his feelings.”

“How have I?”

“Staring at him.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“No, sir. You were glaring at him like he was some sort of filth on the street.”

“Worse,” opined Elton.

“I beg your pardon, but that is simply not the case,” said the man. “I never did such a thing.”

“Oh yes you did. And so did your wife. She thinks I’m rotten. But I don’t think she’s so grand herself.”

“That’s enough.” The gentleman looked very severely at them. “You boys have had far too much to drink.”

“Who’s to say?” asked Harvey.

“I am. You’ve no right to say things like that to—”

“Shut up,” said Elton. “We’ll say what we like, and you won’t do a thing about it.”

“No?” The man might be old, but he had nerve, and a chin that he jutted at them like a billy-goat. His wife, on the other hand, kept her eyes on her supper, but it was plain to see she was proud of her husband for standing up to them.

“No,” said Elton. “You won’t. After all, what would you do?”

“I’ll… I’d…” The old man was at a loss. There wasn’t anything he could do, not really, not against four of them. Elton in particular looked like the sort of young man who wouldn’t think twice about challenging someone, and Bottomly had a hard cast to his features.

“That’s right,” said Elton. “You’ll sit there, and you’ll take what we give you—you’ll lick it up, like a pussy with a saucer of cream. Won’t you, puss? In fact, if I had them bring out a saucer right now, you’d lick the cream from it, wouldn’t you?” Elton’s hand was on the hilt of the silly rapier he wore everywhere. “Wouldn’t you, puss?”

The wife wasn’t looking too proud now. Tom watched her—was fascinated by her. Her disappointment was palpable, and her husband’s eyes kept flicking over to her, for he had noticed the change, as well. He didn’t like being harassed, obviously, but he liked it even less in front of the woman who should respect him as her lord and master. It must be completely humiliating, being humbled in front of her by four striplings.

It came to Tom in that moment—
that
was what Tom needed to do to Mr. Blythe. He needed to humiliate the man, and in front of someone he cared for.

But who? Tabula? Who knew when she would return, and anyway, Tom didn’t care to see that ungrateful slattern again. No, it would have to be someone else. Someone close to him, a friend, a colleague… or a lover.

The problem was, he knew nothing about Mr. Blythe beyond his address, that he sold people their pleasure, and that he had an apprentice.

That would have to change.

“Oh leave the man be,” he said, as Elton shouted for a serving-girl to bring him a bowl of cream.

“Why?”

“Because I want to get out of here. I want… I want to go drink champagne.”

“Are we celebrating something?” asked Bottomly, surprised.

“Nothing much.” Tom grinned at his fellows. “Just my genius.”

“A cheap bottle, then,” said Elton, leaving the gentleman’s side. The old sod shot Tom a grateful look before turning to deal with his glum-faced wife.

“As cheap as it comes,” agreed Tom. “Come on, let’s go!”

***

Tom knew he must be very careful. It would be tricky to observe someone Mangum Blythe; the man likely had as many enemies as he did hairs on his head, being such a total shit. Someone like Blythe must always be watching for any sign of trouble, and if Tom were found out before the reveal, his plans would all be ruined—meaning, he had only one chance, and he meant to make the most of it.

With this in mind, Tom spent yet more of his diminishing loan obtaining several new suits of clothing. Not fine fashionable coats and breeches, but such garments as tradesmen and builders and laborers might wear. He then confounded his serving-girl by requesting she bring him a basin of mud, another of sand, and some grease from the kitchens. These he used to replicate use and wear, and was quite satisfied with his disguises.

The Tom who began to linger along Sackville Street was almost unrecognizable, and thus able to watch Mr. Blythe without being noticed himself. After a few days of this, Tom began to feel a sort of respect for beggars; it wasn’t an easy thing, waiting around all day and night in all weathers. In fact, it was jolly hard, especially for him, as Mr. Blythe kept unpredictable hours, and went out less than people came to see him. Sometimes, all Tom had to show after a day’s work was a hungry belly, a suit of even dirtier clothes, damp in his bones, and shit on his shoes.

The worst part was, when Mr. Blythe did emerge, he did only what any other gentleman in London might do. He visited shops and private homes, went to his club, to dinners, and to parties. What he did at such places remained obscure, as Tom had no invitations or introductions. It was dispiriting, waiting outside these bright parlors and dance-halls in the cold, and often in the rain. Several times Tom despaired of ever succeeding in his endeavor, but after the better part of a month, patterns began to emerge when Tom checked over his notebook—certain homes visited at certain times, certain visitors arriving at 17 Sackville Street on certain days of the week, parties always scheduled between this time and that, and so on and so forth. Out of the chaos of his enemy’s schedule Tom began to see order, beautiful order. So he kept waiting, and kept watching.

His friends called on him to complain he never came out with them anymore, but Tom shut the door in their wretched, ill-bred faces. His budget was abandoned; his intention of living frugally until he could pay back his loan, forgotten. He was a man obsessed, convinced he would discover
something
if only he kept watching.

And in the end, he did.

That day, according to Tom’s notes, Mr. Blythe should have seen clients at home in the morning, and then gone out to his club. But instead of emerging around the supper hour to go and dine, Mr. Blythe got into a cab rather than his coach and, dressed in his best, went somewhere else entirely: to a small townhouse in a quiet neighborhood he had never to Tom’s knowledge visited before.

Tom had hailed a cab the moment he noticed the aberration, and bid the driver follow Mr. Blythe at a distance. Something curious was afoot, that was for sure—that big flunky had packed a basket and a bag into the coach along with his master, and while it wasn’t unusual for Mr. Blythe to bring obscure equipment with him on his errands, it was certainly unusual for him to carry everything up a flight of stairs by himself, and then let himself into darkened rooms with a key.

Tom watched all of this, fascinated. Behind the curtains he saw Mr. Blythe light candles, set out a cold meal, and then pace back and forth, waiting for…
something
. He was in fine spirits, though—Tom saw the shadow of him cutting a jig as he waited.

Eventually, another hired coach arrived, and out of it emerged nothing more intriguing than an ordinary-looking woman in a respectable walking-suit. Though she was not particularly handsome she gave the impression of being good looking. It was the perfection of her posture—the elegance of her bearing. She, too, had a basket over her arm, and after paying the driver carried it up to the second floor, where she let herself in.