Riot Most Uncouth

by Daniel Friedman

  The worst thing about Archibald Knifing was that I could not help liking the man, despite his protean nature and his penchant for insulting me. He had evidently been a distinguished soldier, and he was obviously a brilliant investigator. Everything about him was admirably, aggravatingly capable, and his self-deprecating wit was both appealing and disarming. I liked his casual, smirking admissions of his own corruption. I liked his quickness and facility with language. I could see how witnesses and criminals might forget themselves in his presence. It was too easy to say too much to him. There was no question that I admired Archibald Knifing more than was safe. It would be advisable to admire him from a great distance.

  Fielding Dingle was dangerous, too, even though he was dumb and I didn’t like him. And I could not forget the killer, that as-yet-unidentified monster who had gutted a professor, bled two women, smothered a little girl, smashed a baby, and torn a man’s face off. I had some reason to believe this ruthless butcher had entered my residence and noticed my dining room table, and I also suspected that he might be an indestructible monster of supernatural origins. So that was a fellow one might go out of one’s way to avoid.

  Under the circumstances, remaining in Cambridge was a phenomenally stupid thing to do; the only sane choice was to book the first stagecoach home. But I had always believed that rational behavior made life much less interesting. So, to hell with that.

  I would stay in Cambridge, and I’d do it for ridiculous reasons. Non-reasons, really. I wanted vengeance for Violet, and for her baby. But I’d shirked more pressing responsibilities in the past. I could have accepted justice rendered by another man’s hand; Archibald Knifing could probably dispatch a colder and more punishing retribution than I could ever begin to imagine. The only thing that prevented me from getting out of Knifing’s way was the unshakable, irrational belief that the killings were related, in some way, to my father and the vrykolakas. It was a stupid, crazy thing to believe, and I knew it was stupid and crazy, which just made it stupider and crazier to continue to risk my life and freedom by involving myself in the investigation.

  But, God help me, the lie I’d told myself so many times had taken root in my mind, and I couldn’t walk away from even a very slim chance that I might learn the truth behind Mad Jack’s disappearance. And, anyway, my mother was at Newstead, and if I went home, I’d have to see her. I felt that I’d prefer the vampire’s company.

  By the time Beardy’s crowd dispersed, night was falling and my course was set. I would stay and I would see this thing through. And, as long as I was remaining steadfast, I figured I might as well try to fuck Olivia Wright.

  Chapter 25

  I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long—I am such a strange mélange of good and evil, that it would be difficult to describe me.

  —Lord Byron, as recorded by Lady Blessington

  Men were not permitted into the women’s rooming house after dusk, but I’ve found that if I behave as though rules do not apply to me, then they usually don’t. So, I paid no mind to the feeble protestations of the house matron, who squawked without effect as I strode past her roost by the front door.

  “Lord Byron, why have you returned to my residence?” Olivia asked when she answered her door.

  “I have seen terrible things today. Mangled corpses and murdered children. I am distraught, and I am seeking solace,” I said. “I believe I misplaced some between your bosoms.”

  I reached for her, but she pushed me away. “You’re drunk, Lord Byron. I apologize if I confused you this morning, but I cannot yield to your advances.”

  “I think you are the one who is confused,” I said. “You can give in to your impulses, and you should, whenever possible.”

  “I’ll regret it later.”

  “Later might not come. Trading the pleasures of now for the possibilities of later is no way to live a life. There will always be a later to prepare for, but you will not always be young.” I thought of Mad Jack, flinging china plates into the air. “And if later comes, and you regret your pleasures, so be it! A life without regrets is a life without texture. When now becomes later, you can make a new now; drown your regrets with drugs and strong spirits and do more regrettable things. Let’s seize our opportunity to be scandalous together. Let’s commit some spectacular folly.”

  Olivia was not persuaded. “I should guard my chastity, I think, until I can ensnare a proper suitor,” she said.

  I smiled and brushed my fingertips against her cheek. “That would not be an imprudent course of action.”

  “I am a prudent girl. I treasure my prudence,” she said. “You could be a most excellent man, Byron, if only you would be less reckless.”

  “A poet mustn’t live by the strictures that govern ordinary, conventional lives. Propriety is anathema. Art is about testing limits and reveling in the joy of unrestraint. I am not the man you want to face your regrets with later. I can only offer to share this moment with you.”

  She stretched her neck toward me, so my mouth was near to hers. I looked into her eyes and saw that they were full of tears. “Perhaps, for the right woman, you would change your rakish ways?”

  I smiled. “Perhaps. For a month, or two, or even three. But before too long, I’d meet another right woman, and off I’d go, racing after her. A poet’s heart is not a thing to be owned. A lover’s love is too wild to be tethered in one place. I am fated to chase my desires, irrespective of other obligations. The world is full of beauty, and I want to taste all of it.”

  “Some things that look beautiful are poisonous, you know.”

  “I fear I shall not live a long life. But I would not live otherwise.” I tried to kiss her, but she pulled back from me and retreated across the room, so her bed was between us.

  “And what of faith and fidelity?”

  “If you want those things, you oughtn’t flirt with poets. Faith and fidelity are the province of the prudent man. Someday, you’ll meet one of those, and perhaps you’ll marry him. The prudent man is the most proper of suitors.”

  “You speak as if prudence is a distasteful thing.”

  “Not at all. Prudent men have the wisdom to resist the possibilities of now. A prudent man knows that the combination of two fortunes will yield greater comfort to both parties. A prudent man will understand that he desires children to carry his name. A prudent man will recognize that he wants companionship as he ages, that he wants tender hands to care for him as he grows infirm.”

  “He sounds like an honorable fellow.”

  “He is honorable, and it is upon a sturdy and honorable foundation that he builds his life and his future. And I, the poet, the lover, am most dishonorable. I don’t build anything. I care only for pleasure, and I behave as though my actions have no consequences. I am profligate with money and amass debts wherever I go. I keep dangerous beasts as pets. I am lazy in my studies. And I am rumored to be incapable of sexual fidelity.”

  “You could be more prudent. You could be faithful, for a woman who understands you, for a woman who inspires you.”

  “I don’t want to change,” I said. “And I know that if I changed, you would cease to love me. Maybe you should preserve your virtue for the prudent man. He deserves it more than I. He shall remain by your side, and he’ll always be faithful. If you grow ill, he shall hold vigil at your bedside. If you should predecease him, he shall weep at your funeral and bring fresh flowers to your grave. But you know what I know; love is not a lifetime of fidelity, and love is not a prudent combination of interests. Love is a single, sublime moment, transcendent but fleeting. You know there’s a kind of love so intense that you can’t look at it directly; so bright that you still see its shape when you close your eyes. And you know that a prudent man can’t love like that, because he’s too heavily invested in later to commit himself to now. He can commit for life, but I can only commit to right now. You may forsake true love for the fidelity of a prudent man. But you will recognize his faithfulness is dullness and his honor is
weakness. You will know that he is boring.”

  “But why can’t I have both the now and the later?”

  “The very thing that makes me radiant and desirable will carry me away from you. I need to rove. I will sleep in castles on cliffsides and listen to the ocean crashing against rocky shores. I will watch the sun setting behind minarets. And I will carry my love for you to all the places I will go, but my love will never be yours alone. There will be many other women and probably a few boys, and I’ll love each of them as fiercely and wholly as I love you right now.”

  “But if you really loved me, you would forestall your own selfish pleasure to protect me from pain.” She stepped backward again, into the far corner of the room.

  I shrugged. “If you really loved me, you would not wish to deny me any pleasure. The minute you’re out of my sight, you’re no longer part of my now. The first time desire tempts me, I will succumb to it. My heart is an insect, drawn to the nearest flower by forces beyond its comprehension.”

  “And as you flit to the next flower, I shall be left all alone to wilt and dry out and rot and die.” She crossed her thin arms over her breasts. “You’re not a poet or a lover or a drunk or a hero, Byron. You are none of the things you claim to be. You are a changeling. You are always playing a role. And you have assessed me frightfully well, preying upon my unspoken desires and stoking my romantic impulses while dismissing the solid virtues of Mr. Sedgewyck. It’s funny, the choice between a good man and a bad one ought not be so wrenching.”

  I resisted the urge to tell her what I knew of Sedgewyck’s virtues. “I would not go so far as to say Mr. Sedgewyck is a bad man.”

  She laughed. “You clown and jest, and you’re so quick with your magnificent tongue. But I’m sure you know that you are not the good man in this scenario.”

  I circled around the bed and moved close to her. The wall was at her back, and she could retreat from me no farther. I touched her warm, pale cheek with my hand. “Why? Because I am imprudent? I am sure you know that a prudent man like Mr. Sedgewyck will never love you in a whole lifetime as much as I can in a single passionate embrace. It’s not that he doesn’t wish to; he is a sensible man, and loving you is a sensible thing to do. But he is incapable of my kind of ardor. He lacks the imagination to even realize such a thing could exist. You want me because passion is the opposite of prudence; its heat and its light attract you, though you know a thing so volatile can never endure.”

  Her face rubbed against my hand, and she closed her eyes. “Is that the poet’s gift?”

  “Yes, but not the only one.”

  “What else have you got?”

  I moved my hand from her cheek and caressed her long, white neck, bringing my thumb to rest in the indentation at the base of her throat. “My magnificent tongue has uses beyond jest and clowning, and I can fuck you until your thighs shake and your toes curl up,” I said.

  “You have a high opinion of your abilities, Lord Byron.”

  “In a thousand years of tongues and fucking, there’s never been anyone better.”

  She pinched her eyes shut again, and exhaled with some force, and her breast heaved beneath my persistent caress. “That might be true. But I think I must decline your offer.”

  “You think you must,” I said. “But what do you really want?”

  “I don’t want to endure a lifetime of shame as penance for a single imprudent act, while you bask in your infamy and write mock-epic poems about your conquests.”

  “The present slips away while you fret about the future. You must choose, dear Olivia, to seize your now. I know what you want. I can give it to you. And it’s better than you can possibly imagine. You need only to ask for it.”

  A lingering silence passed between us. I wanted to use this as an opportunity to gather her in my arms, but the moment seemed wrong. Even with my confidence bolstered by drink, I knew that her desire was not tilting my way, and conquest was not at hand.

  “Mr. Sedgewyck—” Olivia began. Her voice was soft and husky, and tears welled in her eyes.

  “No, that’s not what you want,” I said, uninterested in hearing whatever she might have to say about that unpleasant gentleman. “Turn me away if you feel like you have to, but don’t ever lie to me.”

  “Please, Lord Byron, you must let me speak.” Her tone was insistent, but her voice was so soft, it was barely audible. “Last week Mr. Sedgewyck visited my father and asked for my hand. My father gave his blessing. Mr. Sedgewyck is known to be well situated, and this match may ensure the future fortunes of my family. He intends to propose.”

  “So, when he wandered into my home, uninvited, to insult me, he did so at your behest?”

  “It was nothing so unkind as that. I think he was intimidated when he learned I was attending your party, and maybe he was trying to impress me.”

  “He came into my home at your behest and insulted me in front of my friends. I was humiliated.” And then I realized something: “He asked your father for his blessing last week? Before the murder of Felicity Whippleby?”

  “Yes. I don’t see what the one thing has to do with the other.”

  “How long has Sedgewyck been courting you?”

  “Several months.”

  “While he was purportedly betrothed to Felicity?”

  I’d assumed Sedgewyck was merely a bachelor on the hunt for a smart match, and that his pursuit of Olivia had been his pragmatic contingency when the possibility of union with Felicity was extinguished. The fact that Sedgewyck had made secret plans to marry Olivia when Felicity was still ostensibly his intended bride changed my entire perspective on the events of the previous two days, as did the fact that Sedgewyck had apparently concealed his simultaneous courtship of two respectable young ladies from me and from the investigators.

  “His engagement to Felicity was, as you said, merely a pragmatic arrangement,” Olivia said. “It is not unusual to break off an engagement when an opportunity arises to make a smarter match.”

  “Why didn’t he end things with her sooner, then?”

  “His parents were infatuated with the idea of marrying into her good, old family. He was loath to disappoint them.”

  “So he found a way to get rid of her that didn’t require him to spurn the bride his father had chosen for him.”

  “Leif didn’t—he would never.”

  “Killing her was a prudent thing to do, and Leif Sedgewyck is ever so prudent,” I said. “And you’ve chosen his prudence over my passion. The life he offers you is as cold and bloodless as the corpse of the last girl he was supposed to marry. You will never know what we could have had together.”

  She collapsed onto the bed and began to weep. “On some level, I may resent Mr. Sedgewyck and my father for making this arrangement,” she said. “You’re right that I don’t love him, and you’re right that he isn’t passionate. I think that you have sensed within me some unspoken desire to undo the match, to wreck what’s been built, and your insect heart can smell a flower ripe for plucking. Or perhaps I’ve committed some seductive act to draw you in; I cannot absolve myself of all blame. But I must stop before I embark upon your spectacular folly. I cannot forsake my duty to my family’s interests merely to slake my own desire; not for something so fleeting as your limited promises of temporary passion.”

  If I consider it in retrospect, I must admit that this new information didn’t connect Sedgewyck to Cyrus Pendleton or Violet Tower, and it didn’t explain how he could have attended my party, walked Olivia to her doorstep, and still had time to commit all the murders of the previous night. But I was full of fury at the discovery of the Dutchman’s duplicity.

  Olivia, for her part, seemed to find nothing suspicious about her suitor’s strategic maneuvers. In the world where she traveled, one’s entire purpose was to pursue the optimal marriage. But she had deceived me nonetheless, and I wasn’t about to do her any favors.

  “That’s fine,” I said to her. “I don’t really care. I’m moving on already, toward
another carnal impulse.”

  “What impulse?”

  “I want to beat Leif Sedgewyck until he shits blood, and it’s a desire I’ve got every intention of indulging.”

  Chapter 26

  First, I can hit with a pistol the keyhole of that door. Secondly, I can swim across that river to yonder point, and thirdly, I can give you a damned good thrashing.

  —Lord Byron, insulting John Polidori

  Insulting a man is a lot like seducing a woman. Both arts share similar linguistic structures and are, at their essence, tests of one’s cleverness. The same kind of insight helps one spot a man’s pride and a woman’s longing. I’m good at insults. I can gently mock my friends, sting my rivals, and devastate my enemies. But there comes a point in any seduction when charm has run its course, and circumstances demand action. Insults, too, exhaust their function.

  One of the first things you learn at Harrow is that one must never talk when one should be punching somebody. Past that barely perceptible threshold, language, no matter how quick or facile or magnificent one’s tongue may be, is no longer appropriate. A man’s skill at talking his way around violence is a good measure of his wits, but so is his ability to recognize the point when talking is of no further use. When diplomacy fails irreversibly, one must make a preemptive strike. Linger too long taunting or bargaining or cajoling, and you’ll catch a mouthful of knuckles.

  You don’t give a warning. You don’t make a threat. You don’t tell a man you’re about to hit him. He’ll figure it out when his vision goes white and his brains slosh against the back of his skull and his nose smashes like a beam of rotten timber. You talk about fighting only to women. They tend to dampen their petticoats when somebody handsome regales them with tales of violent exploits. Among men, however, violence is its own vernacular, and it delivers its own messages.

  So, when I found Leif Sedgewyck nursing a pint in the Modest Proposal, and I punched him in the side of the head, it meant: “I’ve learned of your schemes and depredations, and will have you punished for your sins, you blackguard.” He twisted around and fell off his stool, which I took as a confirmation that my point was well received.