by Molly Tanzer
But he wouldn’t put such behavior past Mangum Blythe.
Blythe had to be the rudest, most disgusting picaroon Tom had ever had the displeasure of meeting. The man had absolutely humiliated him last night, and in front of the girl of his dreams, no less. He’d taken obvious pleasure in it, too, which was even more despicable. Tom had come to 17 Sackville Street to have a nice meal with Tabula and meet the man whom she called master, only to be driven away like a dog by the impossible fellow.
The man’s behavior had clearly wounded her feelings; Tabula had wanted Tom to see that Blythe was no monster, but he’d seen the truth. She was employed by an unscrupulous knave and charlatan.
It seemed entirely possible that the hateful blackguard was keeping his ward away from Tom out of jealousy and spite; preventing her from coming, or even sending word to her savior. Yes—that must be it!
Poor Tabula! Yes, he ought to think of her, not his own wounded dignity. In fact, he ought do more than think of her—he ought to go to her, to rescue her, and to show her master that he was not a man to be toyed with, or denied.
The cab ride across town was quick enough, but every moment seemed an hour to Tom as he envisioned all sorts of scenarios, the most elaborate of which involved him bursting through the door, discovering Tabula tied to a chair, weeping as Mr. Blythe harangued her over her choice to bestow her affections to one so lowly as Tom Dawne. No, to transfer her affections, for Tom suspected that before her interest in him, she had been besotted with the devil—for devil Mangum Blythe surely was, as Mr. Bewit had alleged. Only a devil would take advantage of an invalid, as Mr. Blythe had done. Miss Rasa was a victim of circumstance—she would never have chosen to become what she was if not for her loss of memory. She was too good for what she did, and certainly too good for Mangum Blythe.
When the cab turned onto Sackville Street Tom leaped out before it had come to a full stop. He flung a handful of coins at the driver and came close to running up the steps to pound on the door.
“I must see Miss Rasa at once,” he demanded, when Mr. Blythe’s Negro manservant, or whatever he was, opened the door. “Tell her Tom Dawne is here, and will brook no attempts to prevent our rendezvous.”
“She’s…” Whatever the fellow was going to say, he decided against it. “Will you wait, Mr. Dawne?”
“No!” Tom knocked his new glass-topped walking stick several times against the tile floor, heedless of the flunky’s winces. “I insist on being shown to her, but if you will not, at least tell where she is currently, for she is not where she is supposed to be. Which is with me.”
“I see,” said the young man, so seriously Tom thought he must be mocking him. “Please… may I show you into the drawing room, Mr. Dawne? You will be much more comfortable there than in the foyer.”
“No need to show him anywhere.” Mangum Blythe had appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in an outrageous parrot-green banyan, a matching cap perched on his head. “I’ll speak with him right here.”
“Come down here, you scoundrel, and tell me where you’ve stashed Miss Rasa!”
“I’m not sure that the location of my apprentice is any business of yours, Mr. Dawne,” said Mr. Blythe evenly, as he indicated his lackey ought to scarper.
“It most certainly is my business!” Tom pointed to Mr. Blythe with the tip of his walking stick. “She was supposed to meet me today, to discuss some private business of significant interest to us both. She failed to come, nor did she send a servant with an excuse. I know Miss Rasa, and I know she would never do such a thing unless she was injured, ill, or prevented from doing so. Therefore I ask you, Mr. Blythe, where is Tabula Rasa?”
“Stop your bellowing.” One hand on the rail, Mr. Blythe descended slowly. “She’s not here, so she won’t hear you carrying on like a heifer in labor, but the neighbors might, and that’s just embarrassing.”
“What would you know of embarrassment? You are a man to whom shame has never been formally introduced!”
“Good one,” said Mr. Blythe. “But really, Mr. Dawne, I must insist you cease this coming into my house and insulting me. It’s rude.”
He had a point, but Tom would not concede it, not to him. “If she’s not here, then where is she?”
“She was forced to leave town rather unexpectedly. I did not know of her meeting with you, or I would have sent word. You have my apologies.”
Tom was stunned. She had left town? “Miss Rasa didn’t tell you we were meeting?” Mr. Blythe’s apologetic smile confirmed Tom’s worst fears. “She… she forgot about me?”
“Don’t be too hard on her, she had rather a long night, and packing is always such a nightmare, you know, especially at the last minute.”
“I don’t believe you.” Tom’s reason reasserted itself. “The business she and I were to have discussed was too important to have slipped her mind.”
“Was it about Hallux Dryden? She already took care of that by herself. Went to see him last night, actually, after you departed.”
“What?!”
“Did I stutter? I’m sorry.”
It occurred to Tom that Mr. Blythe might be lying. “I heard you! I just can’t believe it!”
“Why? You don’t think a protégé of mine would need an introduction to a gentleman? Especially one whom she can call cousin? She simply went over to 12 Bloomsbury Square and spoke with him. They had quite the tête-à-tête, to hear her report.” Mr. Blythe produced a snuff-box, and took a pinch before continuing. “Alas, I don’t believe she’ll be going back. Mr. Dryden, despite being family, proved… not quite to her taste. She said he seemed a bit of a blowhard—one who preferred hearing his own voice than having a conversation.” Mr. Blythe sneezed; tucked away the snuff-box. “As it turns out, in some cases, apparently you can pick your family.”
Tom didn’t think Mr. Blythe was lying to him—but that didn’t answer his most pressing questions: why had she done it? Tabula had completely dashed his dreams of supporting her, sitting beside her as she learned the whole of her history. He had given her back to herself, but only partially; if she had allowed him to escort her, her enlightenment would have been all his doing!
The depth of Tabula’s treachery was staggering; her treatment of him, deplorable. Tom was forced to conclude that she had been acting a part the previous night; that the girl had used him in order to get what she wanted—her money, and the information only he possessed. Now that she had her inheritance and her life’s story, she would likely never think of him again! And after all he had done for her! What injustice—what ingratitude! She and her master were a real pair, yes they were.
“Surely you can understand how anxious she was to get the whole affair sorted.” Mr. Blythe canted his head to the left. “I say! You seem upset! Why on earth would it matter if she went with you?”
He wasn’t smiling, but Tom sensed the man was laughing at him.
“I’m glad you think it’s so funny,” he snapped. “It was supposed to be a gift.”
“Why, Mr. Dawne, you did give her a gift! You told her how to find out about her past. It was very precious, and I can say without a bit of doubt that she appreciated it. I’m sure when she returns she’ll find you and thank you, it was just that she had to—”
“But she had no right to go on her own!” The words exploded out of him. Some part of him was aware how petulant he sounded, but he didn’t care.
“What strange notions the young will cherish!” Mr. Blythe shook his head. “I’ve never heard such a thing in my life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… after I give someone something, I don’t believe I have the right to tell them how to use it. A gift is for the person I give it to, not for me.” He smiled. “Was this gift given to Miss Rasa, or to yourself, Mr. Dawne?”
“How dare you!” To be smirked at by this insufferable man, this corrupter of innocents and ruiner of lives! He was so damn smug, it was as if he had…
“You—you told her to go, didn’t y
ou?”
Mr. Blythe shook his head. “No. I simply suggested that if she wished to, she could handle such a delicate matter on her own.”
“But you’re her master! Surely you knew she would do whatever you thought best.”
Mr. Blythe laughed. “If only—but she brought you home, even after I expressed disbelief that any disinterested man would hand over a fortune to a girl he barely knew.”
“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 si
lly 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.