Chasing Cassandra

Reluctantly Tom took off his suit coat, made of superfine black wool and lined with silk, delivered just last week from his tailor at Strickland and Sons. It was cut in the latest style, single-breasted with no seam at the waist, and deep fixed cuffs on the sleeves. Naturally, he would have worn this new coat today instead of an older one. Suppressing a sigh, he settled the luxurious garment over the boy’s dirty frame.

Bazzle made a little sound of surprise as the warm cocoon of wool and silk surrounded him. He clutched the coat around himself and drew his knees up inside it.

“Bazzle,” Tom said, feeling as if every word were being pried out of him with steel tweezers, “would you like to come work for me?”

“Already do, sir.”

“At my house. As a hall boy, or apprentice footman. Or they might need you at the stables or gardens. The point is, you would live there.”

“With you?”

“I wouldn’t say with me. But yes, in my house.”

The boy thought it over. “Who would sweep your office?”

“I suppose you could come here with me in the mornings, if you like. In fact, it will annoy Barnaby so much, I’ll have to insist on it.” At the boy’s silence, he prompted, “Well?”

Bazzle was unaccountably slow to respond.

“I didn’t expect you to jump for joy, Bazzle, but you could at least try to look pleased.”

The child gave him a profoundly troubled glance. “Uncle Batty won’t like it.”

“Take me to him,” Tom said readily. “I’ll talk to him.” As a matter of fact, he was damned eager for the chance to tear a few strips out of Uncle Batty’s hide.

“Oh, no, Mr. Severin … a toff like ye … they’d cut yer liver an’ lights out.”

A bemused smile touched Tom’s lips. He’d spent most of his childhood in slums and train yards, fending for himself, constantly exposed to every manner of vice and filth humanity was capable of. Fighting to defend himself, fighting for food, for work … for everything. Long before Tom had been able to grow a proper beard, he’d been as seasoned and hard-bitten as any adult man in London. But of course, this boy had no way of knowing any of that.

“Bazzle,” he said, looking down at him steadily, “there’s no need to worry on that account. I know how to handle myself in worse places than St. Giles. I can protect you as well.”

The boy continued to frown, and gnawed distractedly on the lapel of the wool coat. “No need asking Batty noffing about noffing. ’E’s not me uncle.”

“What kind of arrangement do you have with him? He takes your earnings in exchange for room and board? Well, you can work exclusively for me now. The accommodations are better, you’ll have enough to eat, and you can keep the money you make. What do you say to that?”

Bazzle’s rheumy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You ain’t after breeching me? I ain’t a sod.”

“My tastes don’t run to children,” Tom said acidly. “Of either gender. I prefer women.” One in particular.

“No buggerin’?” the boy persisted, just to be sure.

“No, Bazzle, you’re in no danger of being buggered. I have no interest in buggering you, now or in the future. The amount of buggery at my house will be zero. Have I managed to make that clear?”

There was a flicker of amusement in the boy’s eyes, and he began to look more like his usual self. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Tom said briskly, standing and dusting off the back of his trousers. “I’ll fetch my overcoat, and we’ll call on Dr. Gibson. I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed by yet another surprise visit from us.’”

Bazzle’s face fell. “Another shower baff?” he asked in dread. “Like before?”

Tom grinned. “You’d better accustom yourself to soap and water, Bazzle. There’s going to be a great deal of it in your future.”

AFTER BAZZLE HAD been washed, deloused, and outfitted in new clothes and shoes … again … Tom took the boy to his house at Hyde Park Square. He’d bought the white stucco-fronted mansion four years earlier, with most of the furnishings intact. It was four stories in height, with a dormered mansard roof, and private gardens he rarely visited. He’d kept on most of the staff, who had reluctantly adjusted to serving a common-born master. To Tom’s amusement, his servants seemed to feel they’d experienced a come-down in the world, as their previous master had been a baron from North Yorkshire.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Dankworth, was cold-natured, efficient, and remarkably impersonal, which had made her Tom’s favorite of all the servants. Mrs. Dankworth rarely bothered him, and she never seemed taken aback by anything, even when Tom invited guests without forewarning. She hadn’t even turned a hair on the occasion when one of his acquaintances from an industrial science laboratory had conducted a chemical experiment in the parlor and ruined the carpet.

For the first time in four years, however, Mrs. Dankworth seemed flustered—no, dumbfounded—when Tom presented her with Bazzle and requested that she “do something with him.”

“He’ll need a job here for the afternoons,” Tom had told her. “He’ll also need a place to sleep and someone to explain his duties and the house rules. And teach him how to brush his teeth properly.”

The short, stocky woman stared at Bazzle as if she’d never seen a boy before. “Mr. Severin,” she’d said to Tom, “there’s no one here to look after a child.”

“He doesn’t need looking after,” Tom had assured her. “Bazzle is self-sufficient. Just make sure he’s fed and watered regularly.”

“How long will he be staying?” the housekeeper asked apprehensively.

“Indefinitely.” Tom had departed without ceremony, and returned to his office for a late-day meeting with two members of the Metropolitan Board of Works. After the meeting, he ignored the urge to go back home and see how Bazzle was faring. Instead, he decided to have dinner at his club.

At Jenner’s, something interesting was always happening. The atmosphere of the legendary club was opulent but soothing, never too noisy, never too quiet. Every detail, from the expensive liquor served in cut-crystal glasses, to the plush Chesterfield chairs and sofas, had been chosen to make the club members feel indulged and privileged. To gain membership, a man was required to submit character references from existing members, provide financial records and credit balances, and put his name on a waiting list for years. An opening occurred only when a member died, and anyone fortunate enough to be offered the next place in line knew better than to quibble about the exorbitant annual fee.

Before going to the supper buffet, Tom went into one of the club rooms for a drink. Most of the chairs were occupied, as they always were this time of night. As he walked through the circuit of connected rooms, various friends and acquaintances gestured for him to join them. He was about to signal a porter to bring an extra chair when he noticed a minor disturbance a few tables away. Three men were having a quiet but intense discussion, tension clouding the air like smoke.

Tom glanced at the small group and recognized Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent, in their midst. It was hardly a surprise to find St. Vincent here, since his family owned the club, and his maternal grandfather had been Ivo Jenner himself. In recent years, St. Vincent had taken over the management of the club from his father. By all accounts, he was doing an excellent job of it, with his customary cool and relaxed aplomb.