Besides, he was young; he had plenty of time yet to make sure the balance came out in his favor. Heartened by this thought, Eldyn dipped his pen again, blotted the tip, and bent over the ledger.
He had figures to scribe for God.
CHAPTER THREE
I TRUST YOU will take this new responsibility seriously, Mr. Rafferdy,” Lady Marsdel declaimed in a tone made loud for his benefit—and for that of all in the dining room. “When you take a seat at Assembly, it is not something you do to advance your own cause, but rather the cause of all Altania. This is not a party, where you are used to saying anything at all to claim attention for yourself. Instead, you would do well to sit quietly, listen to your betters, and think long before you stand and raise your voice.”
Rafferdy set down his fork and regarded the speaker from down the length of the table. “If I am to listen to my betters, then I must necessarily listen to you, your ladyship. Therefore I will hew close to your advice, and while in Assembly I will endeavor to make myself as vapid, as unwarranted of notice, and as utterly without consequence as possible. In this, I am sure I will be the very model of a member of the Hall of Magnates.”
Unlike her voice, her ladyship’s frown needed no amplification for its force to carry the distance. “As usual, Mr. Rafferdy, your agreement is of such a nature that I am convinced you mean to do the opposite of all I have just advised. So I say again: this is not some pleasant social affair to which you are going. Taking a seat in the upper hall is a matter of real consequence.”
Rafferdy was aware of all at the table directing their attention toward him. He was silent for a moment, and when at last he spoke, it was with that seriousness of which he had only recently learned he was capable.
“I have never thought, your ladyship, that there would be anything pleasant about this affair. If the weight I give this duty does not seem very great to you, it is only because I will not perform it for very long. I am not taking a seat in Assembly, as you know, but rather occupying it until my father can do so again himself. My only aim is to keep his space on the bench free from dust until his return.”
Lady Marsdel went stiff in her chair. Her pursed lips suggested she was not convinced that Rafferdy’s duties in Assembly would in fact be temporary. However, she could not say such a thing, for to do so would be to express something other than firm hope that Lord Rafferdy would soon recover.
As any stream when faced with a hill it cannot surmount must flow along an easier route, the conversation so turned in a less precipitous direction. Mr. Harclint, one of Lady Marsdel’s surfeit of nephews, blinked his watery eyes and stated his belief that Assembly would have a great deal of work before it this year, what with the various ills that afflicted the nation.
On that point Sir Earnsley professed agreement, although it was plain that the bluff old baronet thought Assembly’s labors would be likely to aggravate such afflictions rather than cure them. Lord Baydon, in turn, clasped his hands across the broad bow of his waistcoat and expressed his unwavering conviction that all of the acts passed this year by Assembly would be the most benevolent, the most prudent, and in general the most agreeable laws ever passed in the history of Altania.
“Well, I would be content if Assembly passed no acts at all,” Mr. Baydon declared. “To be enacted, any law must be passed by both the Hall of Magnates and the Hall of Citizens. And these days, if the lower hall approves a thing, then it can only be mischief and tomfoolery. They would see gold bestowed upon traitors while loyal servants of Altania are taxed into penury. It would be better, Rafferdy, if you passed not a single law at all during this session rather than anything the citizens wanted.”
Mr. Baydon reached to pick up his broadsheet; however, as none were allowed at her ladyship’s dining table, he found only his napkin. He gave it a confounded look, then let out a sigh and spread it on his lap.
“Well, I for one am certain that any decrees our Mr. Rafferdy is involved in passing will all be very sensible by nature,” Mrs. Baydon said, her blue eyes sparkling as she set down her glass of wine. “I have no doubt that soon all ill-fitting coats, scarves of garish hues, and dreadful hats will be outlawed from public view, and that anyone who commits the offense of being unfashionable will be taken at once to Barrowgate.”
Rafferdy maintained his air of seriousness as he regarded Mrs. Baydon; or rather, he heightened it to the point of absurdity. “On the contrary, I would never do anything to impede the unfettered movement of poorly dressed people through the streets of Invarel. Instead, I will propose an act that rewards anyone with twenty regals if they can prove they have worn only the most awful clothes, gone only to the most tedious parties, and said only the dullest things in the past month.”
This provoked a furrow upon Mr. Baydon’s brow. “Why, you’ll empty the exchequer faster than the king with a law like that! Every day there must be a hundred parties in the city, and what party isn’t a gathering of outlandishly dressed people saying insipid things? Besides, Rafferdy, in your scheme, shouldn’t it be the stylish people who get the twenty regals?”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Baydon said delightedly, “for I see now the aim is to increase the throngs of the horridly clothed so that those who are fashionable will appear all the better. Is that not the case, Mr. Rafferdy?”
He nodded at her across the table. “You are always clever at fitting together puzzles, Mrs. Baydon. Besides, there is no need to pay those few who properly attire themselves. Being well-dressed offers its own rewards.”
This comment elicited an outburst of mirth around the table. The reaction might have pleased anyone else, but it left Rafferdy unfazed. The good opinions and approval of other people meant nothing to him—so long as he was assured that he had them.
“Well, you must be a very rich man, Mr. Rafferdy,” Captain Branfort said cheerfully, “for no one is ever better attired than you are. I can’t fathom how you march apace with fashion as you do. You must practice at it as a soldier practices his drills; and no doubt, for your efforts, you reap a great many of those rewards you mentioned—the admiring looks of young ladies being chief among them.”
Captain Branfort sat to Mrs. Baydon’s right, as he always seemed to these days. He was a ginger-haired man whose deficit of stature was offset by a surplus of energy. The captain was only a little older than Rafferdy, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, but already a large number of medals and ribbons adorned his blue regimental coat.
Mr. and Mrs. Baydon had made the acquaintance of Captain Branfort during a trip to Point Caravel two months ago. Point Caravel was popular not only for its mild climate and picturesque views of the sea, but also for the numerous soldiers, sailors, and officers who were to be found there at certain times of the year.
Mr. Baydon had wanted to go to Point Caravel to escape a series of particularly long and hot lumenals that had plagued the city. However, Mrs. Baydon had confessed to Rafferdy that the presence of so many eligible military men provided an added reason to go, for it was her intention to keep her eyes open for any likely suitors for Mrs. Quent’s younger sisters.
Despite these charitable intentions, it seemed Mrs. Baydon had decided to keep the one handsome, unmarried soldier she had found for herself. Recently, Captain Branfort’s company had been recalled to Invarel from duty in the West Country. Since then, he had become a common fixture at Lord Baydon’s house on Vallant Street and also at Fairhall Street.
Rafferdy gave a laugh. “I am not so rich as you presume, Captain Branfort. In fact, when it comes to attire, I would say you have the advantage. For you never have to labor over your wardrobe, deciding what outfit would win the most esteem. You simply put on your uniform, and your coat assures you more admiring glances than I will ever be so fortunate to receive.”
“Would that it were so, Mr. Rafferdy! If only you knew how many scowls and grimaces my coat has won me of late. I fear in these times that not all of Altania is as civilized as Invarel.”
Mr. Baydon made no effort to disg
uise his snort. “I would hardly call Invarel civilized these days—not when treasonous devils feel free to come and go as they please. If you had told me half a year ago that a band of hoodlums would be so brazen as to take powder kegs to Trawlsden Square and set them off beneath the cenotaph, I would have called you ridiculous. Yet they have gone and done it, and now I can only think that there is nothing they would not do to tear down the very civilization that has given them everything they possess and every freedom they enjoy.”
While Rafferdy always made an effort to know as little about current news as possible, there had been no escaping stories about the recent tumult in Trawlsden Square. There had been a paucity of dire news since the Risings in Torland ended, so every broadsheet in the city had seized with relish the chance to blare stories about the incident upon its front page—though whether the act was described as villainous or audacious depended on whether one read about it in The Messenger or The Swift Arrow.
At his club, Rafferdy had seen a picture of the aftermath printed in an issue of The Comet. The vivid impression, created by an illusionist, had shown a heap of blackened, smoking rubble. It was all that remained of a monument to commemorate the Three Corners War, which ended several centuries ago with Hathard Arringhart taking the crown of Altania after his defeat of both the House of Rothdale and the House of Morden.
To this day, some historians suggested that it was the latter of those houses that had possessed the most legitimate claim to the throne after the last of the Mabingorian kings died heirless. That was certainly what Bandley Morden had believed when, backed by a ragged band of rebels, he tried to seize the throne seventy years ago. However, the Old Usurper was driven from the shores of Altania—with, according to popular legend, the help of the magician Slade Vordigan.
Despite his ousting from Altania, some had never accepted the Old Usurper’s defeat—folk in the Outlands, mostly, and especially in Torland. In recent years, it had been whispered that Huntley Morden had made an alliance with one of the Principalities on the edge of the Murgh Empire, and that even now he was amassing a navy with plans of sailing to Altania to seize the crown his grandfather had failed to win.
Rafferdy had no idea if those rumors were true, but they had been enough to stir up acts of rebellion in the Outlands in the past—and now here in the city. An anonymous letter published in The Fox claimed the monument had been destroyed because it was an emblem of the wrongful rule of the Arringhart kings and their oppression of the good people of Altania. Not that the cenotaph had been the only casualty, for Trawlsden Square had housed a bustling market. The fact that a number of those same good people of Altania had lost their lives in the blast seemed not to impinge upon the sensibilities of the rebels or their sympathizers. Apparently being scattered to bits was just another way of securing one’s liberty.
Or perhaps it was simply that when the worth of a life became so low, many had to be spent in order to buy anything with them.
“You ask why people would wish to destroy our civilization, Mr. Baydon,” Rafferdy said, his voice going low so that the others were forced to lean over the table to hear. “A civilization, you claim, that has given them every possession they have and every freedom they enjoy. Well, perhaps the reason is simply because it has not given them very much of either of those things.”
This elicited a number of frowns along the length of the table; another witticism had been expected. Mrs. Baydon gave him a concerned look. Before she could speak, Mr. Baydon let out another snort.
“They are not slaves of the Murghs, are they? These ruffians were all born free men, and thus Altania has given them everything they could ever possibly want. Surely you’re not being serious, Mr. Rafferdy!”
Rafferdy drew in a breath, then let it out. “No,” he said at last. “No, of course I’m not being serious.”
Mr. Baydon appeared ready to expound, but his wife was the swifter. “Must we discuss such awful things at the table?” she said, affecting a pout that, given how perfectly and charmingly it was formed, must have been oft-practiced before a mirror.
“They are not awful things, Mrs. Baydon,” Mr. Baydon said, directing a stern look at his wife. “They are important matters that lie before Altania, and you should endeavor to take a greater interest in them.”
“No, you are right, madam,” Captain Branfort said. He pushed back his chair and stood. “These are grim discussions for a pleasant evening. Yet you must know that all men enjoy battle as a sport, whether on the field of war, in the Halls of Assembly, or around the dining table. Do forgive us.”
He made a smart bow, and Mrs. Baydon could not conceal her delight at the gallant gesture, nor Mr. Baydon his annoyance.
After that, the supper proceeded in a more benign fashion. However, as he picked up his spoon, Rafferdy could not agree with the captain’s assertion that all men enjoyed battle. Rafferdy cared nothing for war, and it was his aim to neither cause nor engage in any sort of conflict during his time in Assembly. No, the only campaign that mattered to him was the constant struggle against banality and boredom.
Unfortunately, that was a battle he had chosen to surrender the moment he accepted the invitation to dine at Lady Marsdel’s.
THAT RAFFERDY SURVIVED the remainder of the meal could only be attributed to Mrs. Baydon, who kicked his shin several times beneath the table; otherwise, Rafferdy would surely have nodded off, put his face in his bowl, and succumbed to soup.
Why had he come here tonight? He could have gone to his club for brandy and tobacco and gambling at cards. Or, better yet, he could have hired a carriage to take him through the dark streets of the Old City in search of less gentlemanly, though certainly no less satisfying, amusements—preferably in the company of Eldyn Garritt.
But it had been some time since he had accepted one of her ladyship’s invitations. Declining another might have resulted in her wrath—as well as a letter of complaint to her cousin Lord Rafferdy. That was something Rafferdy must avoid. Besides, he had learned from Mrs. Baydon that another person, who he knew came to Fairhall Street with some frequency, would not be here tonight. And if she was not here, then he could be.
“I am so glad you are in town, Captain Branfort,” Lady Marsdel pronounced after they retired to the parlor and were arranged to her liking—that is, where she could keep an eye on all of them. “Our society has been much improved by your presence. Things have been exceedingly dull of late. My nephews only ever seem to speak of some dreadful thing they have read about in the broadsheets, and Mrs. Baydon seems more intent on fitting her puzzles than on conversing in an interesting manner. I want for more young people to liven these proceedings, but I hardly know any these days.”
“There is Mrs. Quent, of course,” Mrs. Baydon said, looking up from one of those very puzzles, which she was piecing together at a table. “I am sure you enjoy her company.”
“I would enjoy it better if it were more reliable! It is difficult to take pleasure in something that one cannot count upon. Mrs. Quent does not come here nearly as often as she is wanted.” Lady Marsdel opened a fan decorated with gilt roses. “Nor have we seen Mr. Bennick for months. He left the city suddenly, and we have not had the benefit of his conversation since. As you can see, Captain Branfort, we have had a grave deficit of amusement until you arrived.”
The captain bowed. “You are kind, your ladyship, but I cannot imagine a soldier’s tales provide much in the way of entertainment. Besides, how could anyone want for amusement with Mr. Rafferdy about?”
Lady Marsdel waved his words aside with her fan. “I assure you, Captain, Mr. Rafferdy is not nearly so amusing as he used to be. He provides very little entertainment when he is here—not that he seems to present himself in my house with much regularity of late. In fact, if I did not know it was an impossibility, given his duties to this household, I would have thought that he was secretly avoiding us.”
She delivered these last words with a sharp-eyed look at Rafferdy. In turn, he affected his most irrepr
oachable expression.
“I promise you that is not the case, your ladyship,” he said. “For I never avoid anyone in secret. Rather, I always make a great show of it. If I did not, they might forget me in my absence, and my purpose to make them feel deprived of my presence would be wholly frustrated.”
Captain Branfort clapped his hands and laughed. “There! I need offer no other proof that entertainment is assured when Mr. Rafferdy is present.”
“I will grant you that some still find him amusing,” Lady Marsdel said, and this time her glance was for Mrs. Baydon, who had failed to convincingly conceal her laughter by means of a feigned cough. “However, if I ever had a taste for such drollery, I seem to have lost it. I would rather, Captain, that you tell us more of your voyage to the New Lands. That would be something of real interest to hear.”
Sir Earnsley seconded this suggestion, and Lord Baydon added his agreement. So commanded by his superiors, a good soldier like Captain Branfort could do nothing but charge into the fray.
His mind preoccupied, Rafferdy paid scant attention to the discussion, and when Mrs. Baydon threaded her arm through his and pulled him away, he offered no resistance.
“Poor Captain Branfort,” Mrs. Baydon said as they took a turn around the room. “Or rather, poor us. We won’t get a moment of him to ourselves tonight now that my husband’s aunt has possession of him.”
Rafferdy felt the loss less keenly. “Perhaps it’s good for you to practice sharing him.”
She gave him a quizzing look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it was my understanding that you went to Point Caravel with hopes of finding prospective husbands for the Miss Lockwells. Yet when you do bring a soldier back, you appear intent on monopolizing him.”
The House on Durrow Street Page 5