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Authors: C. S. Harris
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tracking the dandy through the fashionable male shopping precincts of Bond Street, Jermyn Street, and Saville Row.
He finally ran Quillian to ground in the discreet premises of Schweitzer and Davison on Cork Street. A slim man of medium height with lean cheeks, an aquiline nose, and heavily lidded green eyes, Lord Quillian was of the same generation as the Prince. Born a second son, he had come into his inheritance late in his twenties, on the death of his older brother. Like so many of the Prince’s cohorts, the Baron was addicted to games of chance, to free-flowing wine and free-spirited women. But his ruling passion was fashion, the vast majority of his time—as well as much of his considerable fortune—being expended on the arrayment of his person.
When Sebastian came upon him, Quillian was dressed in fawn-colored breeches of the finest doeskin and a flawlessly tailored coat with silver buttons. He had a silver-headed ebony walking stick tucked up under one arm, and was pensively debating with his tailor the rival merits of superfine and Bath coating.
“I hear the Beau swears by the Bath coating,” said Sebastian.
“True,” said Quillian. “But then, Brummell began his career as a Hussar. Once a military man, always a military man.” Glancing sideways, the Baron frowned at Sebastian’s own well-tailored but nonchalant rig. “I daresay you order your coats from Meyer’s on Conduit Street, and always in Bath coating.”
“Frequently, yes.”
“Well, there; you see?” He nodded to the tailor. “Let’s say the superfine, shall we?”
Mr. Schweitzer gave an obsequious bow, and withdrew.
“Walk with me a ways,” said Sebastian, falling into step beside the exquisite as they left the shop.
The aging roué cast a dubious eye at the sun shining brightly from the clear sky. “Well, I can walk with you to the end of the street, I suppose. But then I fear I really must call a chair. I’m frightfully susceptible to the sun, you know; if I’m not careful, I quickly turn as brown as a savage.”
Sebastian blinked at the exquisite’s creamy white complexion. “Just so.” He waited while the dandy paused to inspect the tray of buttons displayed in a nearby shop window, then added, “I assume you’ve heard of the death of the Bishop of London?”
The Baron gave a delicate shudder and moved on. “Who, pray tell, has not? The description in the Morning Post nearly brought on my spasms—not that I ever had anything but the utmost contempt for the man himself, but still. Violence of any sort is so . . . crude.”
“Yet I’ve heard it said you fought two duels yourself, when you were younger.”
Quillian gave a tight smile, the sleepy eyes suddenly looking considerably less lazy. “Surely you don’t mean to conflate what happened to Prescott with a duel conducted under the gentleman’s code? I mean, to have one’s head bashed in is so, well, plebeian , wouldn’t you say?”
“Not to mention fatal.”
“I suppose.” Quillian sniffed. “Although it’s Prescott’s own fault, really. He should have thought of the consequences before.”
“Before . . . what?”
“Why, before he set about putting up the backs of half the men in town, of course.”
“I hear you quarreled rather publicly with the Bishop yourself. Last Saturday, was it not? In Hyde Park,” Sebastian added, when the exquisite continued to stare at him blankly.
“Oh, that.” Quillian waved the incident away with the flap of one slim hand gloved in snowy white kid.
“Yes, that. Over abolition, I assume?”
Quillian sniffed. “The bloody, righteous idiot was trying to push a Slavery Abolition Act through Parliament. If you ask me, even to suggest such a measure in time of war is tantamount to treason. The financial repercussions from that kind of foolishness would be ruinous.”
“For you.”
“For England .”
“I suppose the Bishop believed he labored in the service of a higher power.”
“The man was a
He finally ran Quillian to ground in the discreet premises of Schweitzer and Davison on Cork Street. A slim man of medium height with lean cheeks, an aquiline nose, and heavily lidded green eyes, Lord Quillian was of the same generation as the Prince. Born a second son, he had come into his inheritance late in his twenties, on the death of his older brother. Like so many of the Prince’s cohorts, the Baron was addicted to games of chance, to free-flowing wine and free-spirited women. But his ruling passion was fashion, the vast majority of his time—as well as much of his considerable fortune—being expended on the arrayment of his person.
When Sebastian came upon him, Quillian was dressed in fawn-colored breeches of the finest doeskin and a flawlessly tailored coat with silver buttons. He had a silver-headed ebony walking stick tucked up under one arm, and was pensively debating with his tailor the rival merits of superfine and Bath coating.
“I hear the Beau swears by the Bath coating,” said Sebastian.
“True,” said Quillian. “But then, Brummell began his career as a Hussar. Once a military man, always a military man.” Glancing sideways, the Baron frowned at Sebastian’s own well-tailored but nonchalant rig. “I daresay you order your coats from Meyer’s on Conduit Street, and always in Bath coating.”
“Frequently, yes.”
“Well, there; you see?” He nodded to the tailor. “Let’s say the superfine, shall we?”
Mr. Schweitzer gave an obsequious bow, and withdrew.
“Walk with me a ways,” said Sebastian, falling into step beside the exquisite as they left the shop.
The aging roué cast a dubious eye at the sun shining brightly from the clear sky. “Well, I can walk with you to the end of the street, I suppose. But then I fear I really must call a chair. I’m frightfully susceptible to the sun, you know; if I’m not careful, I quickly turn as brown as a savage.”
Sebastian blinked at the exquisite’s creamy white complexion. “Just so.” He waited while the dandy paused to inspect the tray of buttons displayed in a nearby shop window, then added, “I assume you’ve heard of the death of the Bishop of London?”
The Baron gave a delicate shudder and moved on. “Who, pray tell, has not? The description in the Morning Post nearly brought on my spasms—not that I ever had anything but the utmost contempt for the man himself, but still. Violence of any sort is so . . . crude.”
“Yet I’ve heard it said you fought two duels yourself, when you were younger.”
Quillian gave a tight smile, the sleepy eyes suddenly looking considerably less lazy. “Surely you don’t mean to conflate what happened to Prescott with a duel conducted under the gentleman’s code? I mean, to have one’s head bashed in is so, well, plebeian , wouldn’t you say?”
“Not to mention fatal.”
“I suppose.” Quillian sniffed. “Although it’s Prescott’s own fault, really. He should have thought of the consequences before.”
“Before . . . what?”
“Why, before he set about putting up the backs of half the men in town, of course.”
“I hear you quarreled rather publicly with the Bishop yourself. Last Saturday, was it not? In Hyde Park,” Sebastian added, when the exquisite continued to stare at him blankly.
“Oh, that.” Quillian waved the incident away with the flap of one slim hand gloved in snowy white kid.
“Yes, that. Over abolition, I assume?”
Quillian sniffed. “The bloody, righteous idiot was trying to push a Slavery Abolition Act through Parliament. If you ask me, even to suggest such a measure in time of war is tantamount to treason. The financial repercussions from that kind of foolishness would be ruinous.”
“For you.”
“For England .”
“I suppose the Bishop believed he labored in the service of a higher power.”
“The man was a
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