Free Black Ajax by George MacDonald Fraser

mine, and it was only later, in idle meditation, that it struck me that whoever could detach the love-smitten younger Somerset from Circe's embrace must surely earn the undying gratitude of Papa, one of the highest and most powerful peers in the land, a kingpin in Society, a Biggest of Big Guns, and the answer to a toad-eater's prayer. A duke's a duke, dammit, only one rung below a Prince of the Blood. It would have to be managed without expense, opprobrium, or the least breath of inconvenience to His Grace, but the dodge I had in mind was right as a gun, and promised a fine gig as well.
    So I dug out my recently discarded regimentals and sauntered forthin full fig to call on La Belle Harriet at her crib in Mount Street (aptly named). My tale, earnestly delivered with becoming emotion, was that a comrade, Toby Wilson, had expired in my arms in the Peninsula, whispering: “M'sister … dearest Harriet …”, and here I was in the hope that she was the sister referred to. In which case, my heartfelt condolences, and with them those little keepsakes which I had culled, with a manly tear, from his pockets – a snuff-box, rings, seals, baccy-pouch, and a pipe with a Saracen's head on the bowl, raked out from the rubbish in my attic.
    Whether she swallowed it I've never been sure, and I doubt if she could tell you herself, for all her attention was taken with the dashing dragoon in his tight pants, bowing his stalwart six feet and fairly bursting with boyish admiration. That at least was genuine enough on my part, for she was an opulent beauty with a bold eye and a loose lip, not more than twice my age, and there was more cloth in her turban than in the rest of her deshabille.
    In any event, dear old Toby was never mentioned again, and within an hour my youthful innocence had succumbed to the wiles of this practised enchantress. I ain't claiming it as a conquest, by the way, for I doubt if anything with whiskers could have escaped her when she had an hour to spare, and I'd no call to employ the family gift for seduction beyond an artless blush, a gasp of adoration, and letting her have her head. Afterwards, to be sure, I regarded her with calf-like worship and pleaded for a return, which she was pleased to promise for the following afternoon. In my juvenile passion I anticipated this by boarding her again on the spot, and left her in a state of sweet collapse, vowing to call again on the morrow at five precisely.
    Next morning I scouted about and learned by inquiry that Harry Worcester's haunt of the day was the old O.P. tavern in Drury Lane, a theatrical ken kept by Hudson the song-smith, where the younger
ton
were used to look in for coffee and musical diversion of an early evening. That suited admirably, and I went home and wrote a note: “Oh blind, oh trusting! H.W. betrays you! If you doubt it, repair to her directly and behold Shameful Truth unveiled! A Friend”, superscribed and sealed it plain, and instructed my man, a seasoned artful dodger, to deliver it incog to the O.P. at five on the nail.
    You can guess the rest – young Somerset, with blood in his eye,bursting in past a swooning abigail to discover his inamorata and your humble obedient rounding the last bend, so to speak. He let out a howl they must have heard in Lambeth.
    “By God, it's true!” bawls he, nearly in tears, and damned her in violent terms, of which “Traitress!” was the least. What she said I don't recall, and he turned on me, crimson with fury and hurt pride. I had my britches on in a trice, in case he offered assault, but he knew how to bear himself, I'll say that. Good-looking lad, he was, and straight as a poker.
    “I shall call you out!” stammers he. “Whoever the hell you are!”
    “Over this bit o' soiled muslin?” says I. “Talk sense, lad. You'd find yourself fighting half London.”
    “Damn you!” cries he, and whipped his glove across my face, very dramatic. “My friends will wait upon you!”
    “You'll wait a dam'