The Pleasure Merchant (36 page)

“Your cousin!” Reed looked surprised. “I didn’t know you had a cousin.”

“I didn’t, either. That’s why I’m paying him a visit.”

“At this hour?”

“I suspect catching him unawares is the best way. He… won’t want to see me, I don’t think.”

“Do you want company?”

Reed was so good—good as gold. “I have to do this alone, I’m afraid.”

“Good luck, then. Not that you need it.”

“I always need it.” I smiled; tried to look brave. “See you soon… I hope.”

***

Even without checking the address I recognized my family’s home by how it
felt
. This is not to say I possessed any memories of ever having lived there; I did not, and could not conjure them, though I tried, standing in the shadows of the square, staring at the entrance. Mostly, what came to mind was that the townhouse was almost impressively hideous. The most I could say for it was that the windows were clean.

Lights blazed behind many of those windows. It was not all that late; I had little fear of Hallux Dryden being abed, so I took my time loitering, watching, trying to intuit where I would find my cousin.

I knew from what Tom had said that he was a vain man, one who wanted the best of everything for himself, even as he denied its importance. This led me to believe he would take rooms with a view of the quiet yard, rather than the street. Sidling around the corner of the square, after a quick look-around for any watchmen or Bow Street Runners I scaled a low wall, shimmied up the back of an adjacent dwelling, and scuttled along the rooftop until I could drop into their private walled garden. Then I tiptoed closer, avoiding ice-patches and tangles of thorny, barren rosebushes, to see what I could see.

Hallux Dryden’s rooms would be on the second floor, and after secreting myself behind an evergreen topiary I watched from the shadows. There were several rooms to choose from, each with a balcony I could climb onto easily enough, with the help of my rope, the small collapsible grappling hook I had tucked into my tailcoat, and good old-fashioned strength of arm. But which balcony? It would not do to get onto the wrong one—and jumping between them would be too risky, both in terms of being overheard, and for my own safety.

A woman walked listlessly to and fro behind the sheer curtains of one of the rooms; her slow pace reminded me of wild animals I had seen in menageries. It made me uncomfortable, watching her, and I turned my gaze to the next balcony over. There, I could just make out a slender man getting dressed, with the help of his valet. In the third of the possible rooms, several gentlemen were milling about, but I could not ascertain what they were doing. Was Hallux Dryden among them? Or was he getting dressed for a night out?

I tried to conjure up that strange sensation of knowing without remembering that I had become so acquainted with of late. Which
felt
right? Was it possible that some part of me knew which room was his?

I did. It was the one with all the gentlemen. That seemed right, logically, as well—only then did I recall that Tom had described Hallux Dryden as on the portly side. The man getting dressed was lean and leggy, like me.

Perhaps he was my brother.
Alula’s
brother.

It likely seems strange to you that I had no urge to meet Callow, but my desire was to obtain answers about my former life, not to reconnect with my forgotten family. In fact, I hoped never to introduce myself to any of my relations or former acquaintance, beyond Hallux—it would very possibly make me unable to continue with my chosen profession. There was a very good reason both I and my master—and my master’s mistress, for that matter—were orphans. Having no connections made it far less likely that some relation would find out what we did, and object.

I slunk from shadow to shadow across the yard and pressed myself against the side of the house to inspect the masonry. The ornate details would allow me to climb part of the way, but I would need to grapple on to the balcony.

Climbing had been more difficult for me to master than most of the physical skills Mr. Blythe had insisted I learn, but even so, I practiced regularly. And for good reason—there was a dodgy moment as I swung the grappling hook while teetering on an ornamental cornice, but I managed to scramble up all right and perch on the balcony rail without being seen or heard.

Inside, beyond the French doors closed against the chill, I heard masculine voices talking and laughing. It seemed a merry gathering, but I could not make out anything about what they discussed. Settling myself as comfortably as I could, I finally determined to think about what on earth I would say to my cousin once I had him alone.

I wanted to know…
everything
, really. Who my father had been, and what had made him give me up. What had happened between Hallux and myself.

And I wanted to know who I had been; how I knew how to do what I did with my pocket watch. What his opinion was regarding my sensations of knowing without remembering.

I was out there about an hour before the men departed, Hallux with them. I hoped he was just seeing them to the door, but even if he had gone with them to some other location, I resolved to wait for him. That said, I was going to wait inside—it was getting colder by the moment, and my limbs were stiffening up. I stood, unfolding like a spider, and after stretching and cracking my back in several places, I oiled the hinges of the doors, and picked the lock.

As I was turning the handle to let myself in, Hallux returned, closing the door behind him. What can I say about my state of mind? My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating. I had been in more dangerous situations than this, many times, but the stakes had never seemed higher.

While his back was to me I silently pushed open the door and stepped inside. My cousin’s study was full of strange objects, mirrors on stands, lamps with colored shades, paper and glass constructions that looked as though they would twirl or spin. Momentarily overwhelmed by the curiousness of it all, as well as the sudden rush of warmth, I did not announce myself immediately.

The draft, however, did. Hallux turned from where he was messing with some books on a shelf, and spied me.

“Don’t say a word,” I cautioned the plump man in rumpled clothes and artfully mussed hair. “Don’t scream, or ring, or do anything except lock us in here, and sit down.”

“Who the devil are you, to tell me what to do?” He had a high, nasal voice that did not lend him much authority.

“I’m the one with the pistol,” I said, withdrawing it from inside my coat, and leveling it at him.

“Fair enough,” he allowed. “Well, what do you want? Money?”

“No. Nothing like that. I just want to talk to you.”

“All right. Let’s… talk.”

I motioned with the pistol to the door, which he locked. I motioned again, for him to return to his chair. He sat down, gentle as a lamb. He was smarter than Tom had given him credit for.

I drew up another chair, keeping the pistol trained on him the whole time. I said nothing—I just looked at him. All my ideas of how to introduce myself had flown from my mind. I didn’t know what to say or do. With a start, I realized I was afraid. I looked him over—in spite of his size, I didn’t see him as a threat. I would be nimbler than he, and faster. He didn’t look trained to fight, whereas I had been.

It was his hands. His soft, pink, rather fat hands. I was afraid of them. Or rather, I knew I
should
be afraid of them, but I didn’t know why.

I had to say something. “You’re Hallux Dryden,” I managed. Best to confirm it, just in case.

“I am.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“No. But you bear an uncanny resemblance to my second cousin,” he said. “Are you the impostor Tiercel hired to impersonate Callow?” When I nodded my assent, he looked confused again. “But…”

“But what?”

“If you don’t want money, why are you here?”

“You’re a perceptive man. Cannot you guess why I’m such a good impostor?”

“No…”

“Family resemblance.” I smiled. “Do you not recognize me, cousin?”

The man went white as a sheet. I thought for a moment he might faint. I wasn’t worried, I had smelling salts on my person, but I was glad when he recovered. I didn’t want to touch him. I didn’t want to get near his hands.

“Alula,” he gasped.

“You may call me Miss Rasa. That is my name now.”

“But this is impossible!”

“Why? You, better than anyone—save for my father, perhaps—know the story about my dying of a fever was a lie.”

He recovered his color, and sat forward. He stared at me in a way I didn’t like at all. His hands, his awful hands—they twitched, and I began to sweat.

“Do you… remember?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I was told. But I know it’s true. Don’t ask me how, but I know.”

“And you want to know more,” he said shrewdly. “Everything. The whole story, about how you lost your memory, and the girl you were.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“And if I tell you…”

“You’ll never see me again. I want no part of this life, and I never shall. Just tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you alone until the end of your days. I’ll never come near you, never look in your window or darken your door. I’m certain I won’t want to… even if I don’t yet know why.”

It was a hasty promise, one I regretted—but one that I kept.

It was his turn to nod. “I believe you. It would not be in your best interests to do so, given what I know of…
certain matters
.” I must have looked confused, for he clarified: “I don’t believe you were ever to approach Mr. Bewit ever again, that was part of your contract, was it not? Well, I am not he, but I’m certain I could get a good enough lawyer to claim in court that the protection extended to his family. Even if I lost, what an awful scandal for your Mr. Blythe! He’d never work again.”

“You needn’t threaten me.”

“Says the girl with the pistol! Put that down, and listen to me…
Miss Rasa
.” The way he said it, I heard my former name behind it. It made me shudder. “I have a story to tell you.”

You wouldn’t remember—even without the unfortunate, ah,
lapse
in your memory, you would have been too young to recall this, is what I mean—but I had several unhappy love affairs as a young man. I learned the hard way that women’s nature is to bewitch and deceive; that your sex serves only one master:
Lord Vanitas
. And, as a jealous master, he allows for no other idols before him.

You may smile, but on three separate occasions before my twenty-first birthday I thought I had fallen in love—and was loved in return—only to be rejected upon the request of a more formal commitment. A romantic commitment, I should say, for while all three refused to have me as a lover, they all assured me of their desire that we remain
friends
. Friends! I had indeed been a friend to these women, the best of friends. Too late I learned the harsh lesson that women do not pick their lovers from their friends; that my willingness to listen to their silly problems, my buying them gifts and paying them little compliments would lower me in their estimation, rather than make me more appealing. But women are not rational creatures, and are inevitably attracted to villains and rakes, rather than the patient and brave young man who is there for them when they’re jilted by such.

But even when said rake has come and gone, what do they say to the one waiting in the wings when he puts himself forward as the better option?
Oh, but we’re such good friends! Why ruin it?
Foolish creatures!

But all that is beside my point. The rejection of my advances by these petty females turned out to be a good thing—it worked out for the best, for me I mean. I have come to realize that none of them would have suited me, not really. All were too absorbed in their own persons, in adorning their figures with the latest fashions and their conversations with the latest scandals. Silly, conceited, narcissistic creatures! I see now, as an older, wiser man, how miserable they would have made me, every one of them. They tempted me with their bodies and charms, and as whores, perhaps they would have been acceptable companions for an evening. But as wives? They would have been disagreeable and disobedient, which I could never have tolerated. A female must know her place; be subservient to the male of the species.

Don’t think me too absorbed in this tale to notice your reaction,
Miss Rasa
. You are obviously one of those women who sets herself above Nature. Just look at how you are dressed—and at what you have chosen to do for a living! I applaud your choice to adopt another name. You are a disgrace to yourself, your sex, and most importantly, to this family.

And yet, before your bloom revealed itself to be that of a mere weed, rather than some more cultivated blossom, there was promise in your bud. Yes, indeed there was…

After the third of my romantic failures I decided to give up on women entirely, and devote myself instead to intellectual and moral pursuits. After reading Rousseau’s brilliant treatise,
Émile,
I became fascinated with education. It seemed to me that all the faults I saw so clearly in my fellow men could largely be chalked up to deficiencies in their upbringing. Due to our English notions, promising girls become frivolous and wanton women. Boys become irresponsible men. And these undereducated citizens, together, make for an undereducated society, one where people are rewarded not for intellectual distinction or social graces, but for the mere accident of their birth and the status it affords them.