“I fear I have an urgent appointment I must keep,” I told her.
“Perhaps I could make an urgent appointment with you for another night,” she proposed.
“Perhaps so,” I managed, though my mouth grew dry. “Good night, madam.”
“Wait.” She very boldly took hold of my wrist with her hand. A jolt of excitement, hot as fire, passed through my flesh. I think she must have felt it too, for she let go at once. “I hope,” she said, quite apparently stammering for words, “I—well, I know I can be playful, but I hope you have some regard for me. You do, don’t you?”
“Of course, madam,” I managed.
“And yet you are so formal. Will you not be at your ease with me?”
“I should very much like to,” I said, “but I do not believe this is the time. Good night,” I told her once more, and tore myself away hastily, hurling myself into the distance.
I had told her the truth. I should like to be at my ease with her, and this was not the time. No falsehood in that. I merely neglected to mention that I did not believe relaxing my guard around her would be beneficial to my freedom—or even my life.
A NEARLY SLEEPLESS NIGHT of confusion made matters no clearer to me, so it was my good fortune that I had the opportunity to encounter Elias that very next morning. It was distressing enough that the French wished to labor upon my death, but to learn that Miss Glade, a lady to whom I was forming an attachment of no small measure, might well be one of their number left me both confused and morose.
I had some business that morning with one of the clerks of Craven House, and after the meeting I was delighted to see Elias in the building’s lobby, in close conversation with a woman. I momentarily wondered at his presence until I recollected he must be in the building on account of Ellershaw’s malady. I hurried forward, but my eagerness dissipated almost instantly, for I saw that the person with whom he spoke was none but Celia Glade.
Before I was close enough to hear a word that came from his mouth, I recognized his posture: his tall form held ramrod straight, his smile wide and dazzling, one hand pressed to his chest in a continual performance of gentlemanly poise. Elias sought his prey as surely and as single-mindedly as any predator.
I divined that he had just spoken something meant to amuse, for Miss Glade put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh—a noise considered most inappropriate inside Craven House. It struck me as most inappropriate that he should try to charm her or, more horrifically, that she should be charmed by him. I told myself I could not trust Elias to maintain his defenses against such formidable female graces, but I knew better than to believe my own explanation.
Accordingly, I rushed forward, fully intending to break up this most unpropitious meeting. What, I wondered, did Miss Glade know? Was she aware of my friendship with Elias? Did she know that his fate was so closely bound to mine? The only thing of which I might be certain was that I wished she should learn nothing more than she knew already.
“Good morning, Celia,” I said to her, ignoring Elias for the moment. “Do you think it wise to advertise to all of the Company that you have need to speak with a surgeon?”
In retrospect, I realized I might have chosen a less venomous method to end their discourse, one less suggestive of what I had learned of her—now likely false—history. At the time, I was pleased enough that it did the business. Miss Glade turned red and hurried off.
Elias narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, a sure sign of his irritation. “I say, Weaver, that was most unkind.”
Given that I had much to discuss with him and could not do so here, I hardly hesitated before violating the rules and quitting the premises for a journey to a nearby tavern. The entire way, he complained about my ending his congress with Miss Glade.
“That girl was a delectable nugget, Weaver. I’ll not forget this outrage soon, I tell you.”
“We shall discuss it later,” I grumbled.
“But I wish to discuss it now,” he insisted. “I am far too irritated to discuss aught else.”
I ducked my head to avoid one of the metropolis’s many and notorious low-hanging shop signs we came hard upon. Elias was too distracted to see it, and indeed I was so angry I nearly let him strike himself, but in the end I could not see him take an injury, even a minor and comical one, so I reached up and pulled him down as he walked. He kept his balance and did not miss a stride.
“Oh,” he said. “That was a good turn. But it does not excuse this outrage, Weaver. Outrage, I say. I shall order something very dear and insist you pay for it.”
Once we were equipped with our pots and Elias had called for a plate of bread and cold meat, and then fortified himself with a pinch of snuff, he began once more.
“In the future, Weaver, when you see me with a pretty girl, I should very much like—”
“Your life and mine and the lives of my friends depend on what happens in Craven House,” I said, not a little harshly. “As far as concerns you, I am the lawgiver there. You do what I say and when I say, and you do not grumble about it. I’ll not let your insatiable appetites and inability to sense danger when it is under your nose lead the two of us and others into ruin. You may think being unable to govern your appetite for women is nothing but amusing, but in this case it may well prove to be nothing short of self-destruction.”
He gazed into his pot, taking the time he needed to master his passions. “Yes,” he said at last. “You are right. It is not the appropriate place to seek out pleasures, and you are right that I am not terribly good at making wise decisions when it comes to women, particularly the pretty ones.”
“Good.” I clapped my hand upon his shoulder, that he might understand it best to let the thing pass. “I’m sorry I grew so hot with you. I have been tried most sorely of late.”
“No, you need not apologize. I require a good thrashing now and again, and better it be done by my friends than my enemies.”
“I shall make an effort to recollect your words,” I said with a grin, feeling much relieved that the discomfiture had passed. “Now, tell me about your more appropriate adventures.”
I cannot say if it was with effort or if his mercurial nature allowed him to drop his resentment so readily, but he brightened at once. “Your friend Mr. Ellershaw is terribly afflicted.” The news sounded grave, but he delivered it with a grin.
“The French pox?”
He shook his head. “Not the French pox but the English malady. Madness.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, Weaver, is that he believes he has an advanced and virulent case of syphilis—though at times he speaks of it as gonorrhea, not comprehending the difference—and yet he has not a single symptom. I can find no sores, pustules, rashes, or inflammations, nor can I find signs that there have ever been such.”
“Are you certain?”