Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 01

CHAPTER ONE:

TUDLEY HOUSE

Edward did not like the looks of the old country manor, no matter which angle he saw it. It was dark and dreary, and it had been years—decades!—since anyone had maintained the place. A Tudor style, two-story affair, the decrepit pile of bricks was covered in vines and dirt. The lawn had not been tended, the windows were caked with coal soot from the Bloomfeld plant a mile away, and the once-stately slate roof looked like the hide of a dragon after a particularly rowdy fight with a vengeful knight. There was an air of misfortune and misery that hung over the place, as if great misdeeds and missed opportunities had accumulated over the years in layers as thick as the dust.

Edward should have had a home like this himself, he thought with a sigh. Only not so dreary. His college friends, the cream of the realm's aristocracy, had such places to spare: the accumulated inheritance of generations. This home could have been magnificent under his care, he knew, a worthy estate for a country gentleman or industrious peer. It was precisely the sort of thing he aspired to—had aspired to for years, actually. Only Edward Lane was without inheritance of any significance.

That wasn't quite true—his father had been a Brigadier in the Lancers, a career military man furthering the Empire in distant lands. Edward had only met the man three times in childhood, when he was home on leave and condescended to visit his wife and children. The last time Edward had been twelve years old, and had been very impressed with the gentleman, his uniform, his thick mustache and his commanding manner. He had seemed invulnerable, eternal. Then he had returned to foreign parts for the final time, succumbing to some tropical disease when Edward was fifteen, leaving a tiny pension for his mother and no sort of inheritance for his children. His salary as Brigadier wasn't extravagant, but it was sufficient to send his only son to a decent school, and one of his leftenants overseas, a prosperous aristocrat whose life his father had saved, had generously ensured that Edward receive a decent education by getting him into college and paying him a small stipend until he earned his letters.

There are limits to such generosity, though, and upon graduation Edward found himself without a home (his mother had died, his sisters had married), without money, without title, and without prospects. Having become accustomed to the life of the aristocracy, he had clung to the coattails of his college friends for a few years, pretending to an affluence he did not have, before he decided to take up a trade. And while he was intelligent enough to take the bar, canny enough to con himself a commission in the Army, and witty enough to continue sponging off of his college friends indefinitely, he was too lazy or proud to do any of these things. So he had condescended to take up a trade: gentleman burglar.

He was well-prepared for his new profession, having had a love of great art and jewelry since he'd been exposed to it. He was also adept at a number of subjects that are not generally taught in the finer colleges, such as picking locks and pockets, dissembling around suspicious servants, and lying to the face of police detectives, all thanks to the tuition of his mother's half-brother, a Celtic n'er-do-well named Uncle Pete. Pete had occasionally arrived at their house unexpectedly, stayed for an unspecified duration, and vanished without explanation.

But when he did linger for more than a day or so, he doted on his nieces and nephews. From the first time Pete had picked his pockets at nine, Edward had been fascinated with such sleight-of-hand and demanded to learn how it was done. Pete had been tickled to have such an apt pupil, and thereafter he would impart some bit of underworld knowledge to his beloved nephew. It had made him quite a name in school. He had become known as "Eddie The Dodger" for the adept way he seemed to be able to acquire things, from examination answers to the odd wallet. Always quick with a joke or a smoke, Edward had used his petty notoriety to insert himself into a social group far above his means—and he had Uncle Pete to thank for it.

Edward had a touch of the man's abhorrence to hard work, but didn't share his penchant for gambling, women and drink, which meant that he retained far more of his ill-gotten gains than his uncle ever had. But when Edward had confided his despair at having any prospects to the man, Pete had taken him on a seven-house burglary spree before sitting him down with a mutual friend, a squint-eyed fence named Lyle. Lyle had a better appreciation for Edward's potential than Pete, recognizing his education and social contacts gave him access to great troves of treasure. So he embarked on his career that very day, and hadn't looked back since.

The key to his success for the last three years had been his patience and willingness to acquire lesser pieces from less well-guarded premises, avoiding risky situations at all costs. The result had been a string of unconnected robberies of low stature. His biggest take had been the reason he was now in the countryside: a magnificent antique gilded jewelry box belonging to the mother of one of his old classmates. It had been worth more than all of the junk jewelry within it, some three hundred pounds, but some pieces of sentimental value had caused the wealthy matron to pursue the theft with all the powers at her disposal. That made the city too uncomfortable, and so Edward had decided to pursue a few scant leads in the countryside. At the top of the list was this Tudor manor: Tudley House.

He had no idea who the original Tudley had been, nor much about the current owner, one Lord Trey, a distinguished gentleman who spent most of his time abroad pursuing his varied interests—and a lot of native womanhood, by all accounts. He hadn't been in the realm, much less at Tudley House, in more than four years. But his sources had mentioned the trove inside as being right up his alley. Odds and ends from Lord Trey's adventures, some original Tudor-era artwork (which was a long way from Edward's tastes in art, but no matter), and some even earlier pieces the distinguished old family had collected. Tudley House may have been a mausoleum, but it was one stuffed to the rafters with loot.

Edward had taken the train to Bloomfeld—his resources did not permit a more stately and expensive airship, and the truth was Bloomfeld had no proper mooring tower for one— and a room at the village inn for a few days, indulging in the inexpensive but comfortable digs and visiting a few acquaintances in the area. It gave him a solid reason for being this far from his normal haunts, and a nascent interest in birding had made a tromp through the back country behind the manor a reasonable thing. Slipping unnoticed through the foliage that afternoon had been simple. The three hours of clandestine surveillance had been boring but rewarding for all of that. A caretaker seemed to live in the carriage house, and a maid left for the village just after dusk, but beyond that there didn't seem to be anyone about Tudley House this fine autumn evening.

He waited a further two hours past dusk before he made his way to the back kitchen door. He found it pleasantly unlocked, although the hinges were in deplorable state, and so he stopped to thoughtfully oil them to silence before proceeding. The dark stone rooms of the pantry and kitchen smelled of stale flour and moldy cheese, and a careful hand on the stove and a glance at the rubbish bin told him that the maid had cooked at least two sparse meals today.

Satisfied, he climbed the narrow stairs up to the buttery, stopping to sneer at the poor vintages stored therein (but making an exception for an unexpected bottle of Port that he consigned to his bag for celebration later) before making his way out to the front of the house. He moved carefully and quietly, cursing the squeaking floorboards in his mind as they betrayed him. Still, he heard nothing else in response, and proceeded more boldly forward to the parlor where he expected to begin his spree. The big wooden double doors seemed more intimidating than inviting, but he soldiered on, turning the tarnished brass handle with a decisive click.

"Hullo!" came a voice in the darkness, making him nearly jump out of his skin. His heart began beating furiously. "Is anyone about?" The voice was female, though he couldn't determine the age or class.

"I . . . It's just . . . me," he finally choked out, his throat dry. He hadn't seen any signs of life within, but unless the woman was a ghost—which he didn't believe in, despite the current fad for such things—he was nicked. As Uncle Pete said, a swift tongue can get you out of more dodges than swift feet. "Where are you?" he asked, putting on his best confused aristocratic idiot expression.

"I'm here, in the chair," the voice said, a touch of gravel in it. "Come join me."

"It's . . . well, is there a lamp?"

"I wouldn't know," the voice said, bemused. "And it would do me no good if there was. I am blind."

"I . . ." Edward said, his voice in his throat. Perhaps he wasn't nicked after all! Thinking quickly, he struck a Lucifer from his pocket, splashing the barest bit of light into the room—and causing a cascade of macabre shadows to rush forth. He thought he glimpsed the woman's shape in the gloom, slumped in a great over-stuffed chair next to the fireplace, where the tiniest of embers glowed. But more importantly he saw a candlestick on the mantle. The Lucifer went out, burning his fingers, before he gained it, but he had another, and in a moment there was enough light to see, dimly. He found three more candles and lit them, and the light was almost passable. "That's better," he sighed. "I'm afraid I'm no friend of the darkness."

"Either am I," the woman quipped, drolly, and then added the briefest of laughs. "Now who are you?"

"I? I'm nobody. Edward, Edward Lane," he explained, one of the prefabricated explanations he'd prepared falling out of his mouth like the honest truth. "I'm a birder, and such a novice at the art of woodsmanship that I'm now hopelessly lost. I followed a stream expected to eventually encounter a bridge before nightfall, and thus a road and beyond that a house, but then I smelled the chimney smoke and followed my nose here. I didn't think anyone was about, and planned on spending the night until I could orient myself in the morning." It was a plausible explanation—the best ones were—and decorated with enough of the truth to pass as such.

"Well, welcome, Mr. Lane, to my home. I apologize that I'm such a poor hostess—I don't often receive visitors, and the maid has retired home for the evening. Still, it wouldn't be Christian of me to deny you shelter on a night like this." She nodded towards the tall, narrow window to her right. A brisk autumn shower was already starting—which Edward had planned on, to erase any incidental footprints his visit might leave.

"I appreciate your kindness and generosity," he said, bowing—and then realizing she could not see the courtesy. "And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"I am Elizabeth, Lady Trey," she said. "Although counting it an honor would likely be overstating it. And you are welcome to whatever little cheer I have. In truth, I welcome the diversion. It makes a welcome respite from my usual mode of evening entertainment."

"And that would be?" I asked, curious.

"Sitting in the dark, alone, and drinking gin," she said with a wry chuckle, raising her glass to him. "It is ever so much better to be sitting in the dark with someone else and drinking gin. Cheers."

"Cheers," he echoed, absently. "Is Lord Trey not about, then?"

"Lord Trey is at his estate in Beumonde, where he oversees his ... interests," she said, emptily. "I have not had the pleasure of his company in four years. Please, have a seat," she said, interrupting herself.

"I'd love to," he said, "but if you permit me, let's stir the fire and take the chill off, shall we?" It was depressingly cold in the room, he noted, and Tudors had a justly-earned reputation for draughtiness. Lady Trey was enwrapped in several quilts, and while the air before her mouth did not quite turn to vapor, it was a near thing. She nodded and Edward proceeded to stoke the fire to the point where the flames provided more illumination than the feeble candlelight. When he turned back to face his impromptu hostess, he gasped. Wit the augmented light he could see her face clearly for the first time.

"What is the matter?" Lady Trey asked. "Did you burn yourself?"

"No," Edward said, shaking himself back to reason, "I was just . . . startled. You are very beautiful. And much younger than I thought."

The laugh that came from the fair face and unseeing—but nonetheless gorgeous—blue eyes shook Edward for its hollowness and lack of mirth.

"Beautiful? Young? I feel neither—and none has dared say such things to me since I lost my sight."

"That is a tragedy," Edward murmured. "You are quite stunning."

Lady Trey dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "My maid brushes my hair twice a day, and helps me wash. Apart from that I am quite plain in my toilette."

"I beg to differ, madame," Edward countered.

"Well, you are gracious to say so. But I've already invited you in to stay the night, further flattery is unnecessary, Mr. Lane. But I do bid you join me in a drink."

Edward poured a second glass from the pitcher of gin and lemonade set near to Lady Trey's hand on a well-appointed table, then took a seat on the settee opposite her. "Cheers," he repeated, sipping the cool drink. By the size of the pitcher and what remained, Lady Trey was at least two sheets to the wind at this early point in the evening. And there was still plenty left.

"I cannot help but wonder that you aren't concerned for your safety, out here alone," he mused.

"Do not be," the woman said, shrugging. "Sometimes I pray some ruffians will break my house and end my torment in some spectacularly savage manner. But we are too remote and humble to attract a better class of ruffian. Besides, Hampton, my groundsman, can hear me scream from here. "

"Now, now," Edward soothed. "I can see how your situation would drive one to melancholia—or drink, for that matter—but to wish for a premature end is, if I may say, unChristian."

"Oh, I'd be content if some hideous wretch broke in and ravished me," she said, just flamboyantly enough to let Edward know the level of her toxicity. "Indeed, I've prayed for it. Is that not also unChristian, Mr. Lane?"

"Well, I'm hardly a vicar," Edward chuckled, warming to the woman. "And I would not presume to judge such . . . flights of fancy. They're quite common. Propriety keeps me from mentioning a few of my own . . . wilder dreams. Perfectly normal."

"Does that mean you're here to ravage me, then?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"I wouldn't presume on my hostesses' hospitality—and I assume madame is jesting."

"I haven't seen my husband in four years, Mr. Lane," Lady Trey said, sadly. "And he wants nothing to do with me. The last time I felt the touch of a man . . ."

"Oh, dear," Edward said, taken aback. He had thought her just a bawd—but there was true misery in her voice. "Is your husband blind, as well, then?" he asked, sincerely.

"Flattery again!" she said, shaking her head. "What an absolute rogue you are, Mr. Lane! My groundskeeper has grandchildren and smells of manure. My maid is more a jailor than a confidant. Yours is the first other human voice I've heard in a year, since I stopped attending services. And you fill my ears with honey."

"I speak only the truth," Edward sighed. "While I respect your infirmity, if I had no knowledge of it I assure you I would spare no expense or trouble to make your acquaintance across a crowded ball room."

"Where you would never see me. The blind are not known for their dancing. More the pity—I loved to dance, before my accident. You have a kind and . . . virile voice, Mr. Lane. "

"Flattery!" Edward accused. She laughed at his joke, the first pleasant laugh he'd heard from her lips since he'd arrived. "But I'll allow it only if you accept that I have a face like an overdone kidney pie. "

"As long as your voice is handsome, that is agreeable," Lady Trey said. "Then we can agree to this fiction together, and proceed with the ravishment."

"Another drink, first," Edward demurred, pouring for them both.

"So you think me . . . pretty?" the woman continued.

"As lovely as a doe at dawn," Edward assured.

"Honey-tongue. Pray continue. Pretty enough to court?

"Of a certainty," he avowed.

"Pretty enough to wed?".

"If I had the station and expectation, you'd make a lovely bride for me."

"Pretty enough to . . . bed?" the woman asked, hesitantly.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Edward tried hard to gauge the woman's emotions—the eyes were not as telling as they were with other women, and he had difficulty judging how serious she was. He was on dangerous footing, here, and he knew it. But he was bold, at need, and this was such an occasion where boldness, not timidity, seemed to be called for.

"You are a striking woman," he began, hoarsely. "And I would be a liar if I said I was unmoved by your beauty . . . in a most uncomfortable way. Were you unwed, I would ply you with drink and flattery far beyond the feeble praise I've made here, and steal kisses at every moment."

"Go on," Lady Trey said, breathily.

"I would not stop until I had you alone, and I would do my utmost to put you in a compromising position at the first opportunity." He hoped that sufficed. The poor, lonely woman was starved for attention—for simple conversation—and if he was planning on depriving her of her valuables, the least he could do was cater to her whim. "I would make passionate love to you day and night. I would cast aside all propriety and insist you perform like a doxy until we were both satisfied."

He wasn't certain, but he thought he heard a moan emit from the heap of quilting. He elected to continue out of nothing more than a perversity to stir the passions of this woman. "I would teach you things to our mutual pleasure that a dockside whore would balk at for a purse of gold."

"Yes, yes!" Lady Trey said, closing her eyes. "That is entirely what I want!"

"Yet—"

"How, a 'yet'? " she asked, in frustration.

"You are wed," he pointed out. "And to a peer of the realm. Propriety dictates that such liberties are . . . sadly . . . forbidden. The scandal . . . "

"And what scandal there would be if lonely, blind, pitiful Lady Trey be discovered in such a position?" she asked, dryly. "In truth there are maybe four aristocrats in the county who even know my name, Mr. Lane. Even the villagers rarely speak of me. There is no scandal where there is no reputation to break . . . and I am unnoticed. As far as my 'dear husband' is concerned, the night I lost my sight was the last night he cared to speak to me, much less touch me. And as far as my eternal soul is concerned, I tell you that I fear no damnation from such an act. My soul has been bound for perdition for years, I assure you. One more sin—or a lusty dozen—more or less will make no matter before the Throne of God. I've accepted my damnation, Mr. Lane, and not only willingly break my marriage vows, but actively seek to do it."

"Well," Edward said, quite at a loss, "If I might ask—purely for the sake of conversation, I assure you—what form of vow-sundering ravishment plagues your tormented soul?"

"For the sake of conversation," Lady Trey said, amusedly, "let us say that the scenario you've described lives up to it quite nicely. I wish to be treated like a whore, Mr. Lane. I was but twenty when I wed, and my 'dear husband' was artless in the marriage bed. I barely knew what was happening before it was over. After my accident, my native urges did not vacate me with my sight. On the contrary, deprived of literature and art, boredom and ennui made my carnal longings that much more acute. But what could I do with them? People look upon me with pity or scorn, and neither one often leads to such illicit pleasures. I have been denied the pleasures of marriage, Mr. Lane. Of even a poor marriage. The most common peasant wife enjoys a more fulfilling life than I. And while my sight and usefulness is limited, I cannot help but think that, in the darkness of the bedroom, such infirmities are moot."