The Proxy

Sidney’s expression remained fixed, though he was glad to see Conrad finally take a seat. In that chair. Imre’s chair. It still felt that way, even though it had been empty for many months. Sidney inhaled as he looked from Conrad’s lap up to his face with a pleased smile.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” The brandy and glasses were stored conveniently in a drawer of his desk, which he brought out one piece at a time as he continued to speak.

“Surely you do not believe what’s written about me in the gossip rag. I always took you as being too discerning to even read that sort of filth. I won’t pretend not to know your low opinion of me.” He grinned. “I hope your judgments are based on the facts you’re aware of and not cluttered by some jealous old hag.”

He uncorked the bottle and began to pour, looking up at his companion. “So. What is it we are drinking to, Conrad? I acquired this to drink in celebration of our new business, but I also wouldn’t let it go to waste.”

•

Conrad watched as Sidney fetched the the amber liquid and glasses and set them atop the desk. His fingers curled into a fist upon his leg, fighting the urge to reach forward and pour the brandy himself. Refocusing on the man across from him, a laugh slipped past his lips, quick and harsh. 

“It seems the only way to stay afloat in this godforsaken town is to be aware of the whispers. And, well, you can agree it would be unwise to not at least inquire after the solidity of my potential business partner...” He searched Sidney’s face, marked the ways age had affected it-- the lines at the corners of his eyes, the arrogance in his brow, made worse by that smug grin of his. 

“Would you say my being here is enough to drink to?” He responded, his gaze steady on Wyatt, “A mere few months ago I would have simply told you to go Hell and wait for me there. But here we are.”

He had not had the distinct pleasure of being introduced to Lady Harcourt prior to the luncheon, but he had heard whispers of her pleasant nature and rather becoming appearance. He had, in particular, taken interest in the tales of her successful captaining during the Bennetton Regatta. 

Leaning over towards the countess, Conrad offered a smile, and a dip of his head in greeting. “Lady Harcourt, I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I’m Lord Mowbray.”

“Conrad, please do not be so dramatic.” Lydia begged with a roll of her eyes. She brought herself down to sit primly in the chair opposite his and looked back up. “You know as well as I that the last time I went about something properly, you and I hardly spoke for years.” Sure, it was a cheap blow, but the tension in the room was thick and stifling, and Lydia was still struggling to find a good enough explanation.

Obviously it didn’t help that her and Kenneth had just fell into a rhythm that neither one of them could simply shake away. But how could that be explained, especially to someone as course and dry as her brother? Conrad wouldn’t know an attraction if it bit him in the derrière! Still, the longer she sat before him with no excuses to offer, the guiltier she seemed.

She messed with the topaz ring on her finger, the one that now replaced her former wedding band. “I wish I could tell you that you needn’t worry. I am a grown woman and I am capable of seeing this through. Yet, you are my brother and I cannot stop your worry.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line and she laid her hands palm down on her lap.

“Lord Ridel and I have erm…taken up with each other.” She said. “Not in an improper fashion, I must assure you! But we have…seen one another, most unsupervised.” A loud sigh came forth and she dropped her shoulders with the relief of coming clean. “His intentions as well as mine, are steadfast and pure….and I am beginning to think it may be love.” With that, she glanced up and awaited Conrad’s reaction.

•

“Dramatic?” Conrad took a step towards her, and bent to meet her eye level, his voice growing low and severe. “You are not a child anymore, Lydia, so stop acting like one.” And perhaps that was the problem. He himself still thought of her as a girl, as a small, innocent creature that needed his constant protection. But she had grown up, had seized a life of her own... And he would not be able to always protect her from the choices she made. He straightened, took a deep breath and turned back to the fire to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice had calmed. 

“Sister, you must understand that the way of the world, of society, and the order by which we all live... It has purpose. It is meant to keep balance, to provide structure, safety, and-- and intention.” 

He crossed to her, his hands coming to rest upon her shoulders. He restrained himself from scoffing at her mention of love, nor of Lord Ridel’s alleged purity. He would have a word with the Scotsman. “I appreciate your honesty, no matter it’s tardiness.” He hazarded a faint smile. “But, if this is to be real, Lydia, it must happen properly. It must be recognized as a true, and honorable courtship. You represent more than just yourself, do not forget that.” 

Conrad did not sit. Despite the rather warm invitation (if he could say so), and the offer of quite a sum of profits, the other gentleman could not bring himself to find even an ounce of trust.

Sidney watched the file land back on his desk. The cat’s tail swished in annoyance. Why?

The temptation to jest was overridden by a shake of his head and a shrug as he looked back up at Conrad. He swallowed back his nerves before he answered. “It is what Imre wanted for you.”

His mouth pressed closed and he refused to allow for any other feelings to rush at him. He had half a dozen loose ends from what he took out of Imre’s office but none seemed as important or profitable as this risky venture. It still surprised him to think these two had such grand plans, and without him.

“Take it, Conrad. Do not force me to explain my reasoning.”

•

“It’s what Imre wanted for me...” he repeated, almost a question, almost a jest. He stared at Sidney, his hazel eyes hard and discerning. Finally, he moved forward to take a seat, though it was the one to the left rather than the one that had been offered. 

Leaning back, Conrad sniffed, straightening his jacket as he settled into the chair. He glanced at the cat which, appearing to have lost interest, was licking its paw and rubbing it against it’s ear. 

“Do you have something to drink, Wyatt?” He asked, ignoring the man’s prompting. His head ached suddenly, his mouth somewhat dry. He could not admit that it felt like something of a betrayal to go into business Sidney. For reasons known and otherwise. 

“I don’t charity, Sidney... And the voices of London make it seem as though you need it more than me.”

[Several ink marks stain the paper, as if one were holding the quill with intent but no action. Handwriting maintains its sloppy yet readable appearance.]

Dear Lord Mowbray,

It is strange to write to you, knowing we are in the same city and yet to meet. I would like to meet to discuss a matter I’m sure you have heard rumors about. It is best we talk in person. I am not eloquent in my letters and would explain everything poorly.

I did want to inform you that I have asked your sister if I may escort her to the Queen’s Luncheon in the coming days. A blindside is not my intention, my friend. If she wishes to go with me, I will not refuse. Again, we have much to discuss.

Sincerely,

@conradmowbray

Lord Ridel, 

I do believe you have proven yourself rather presumptuous in writing to me as a friend. Not only is your conduct rather deplorable, but it appears also that you have little respect or concern for Lady Gramercy. 

To make my point rather clear, I do not find you a suitable escort to the Queen’s luncheon, nor do I approve of your inappropriate behavior. I do recognize that my sister will make her own decisions despite my opinions. 

If you wish to meet I will allow you to call upon my residence. Lady Gramercy will not be permitted at such an occasion. 

From,

It was odd to receive summons to Conrad’s study at such an hour. Usually they did their conversing at the breakfast table or during tea. Nevertheless Lydia followed the butler into the room. The only light came from the window as the afternoon sun blazed. Once she saw her brother’s grave face, any expectation of pleasant conversation went back out the door with the butler.

The parchment crinkled soundly as the man swept it from the desk. As it was handed to her, Lydia’s heart sunk. It donned the same header as the missives she had previously received from him. She felt her breath catch in her throat and her lashes fluttered, pointing down as she tried to hide her emotion. “There are so many things I could say, know that I should…yet none of them seem right.” She half-whispered, hazel eyes trained on the note in her palm. The emotion laid thick in her chest, awaiting his reaction.

•

Up until the very last, he had wanted to believe his sister innocent of any wrongdoing. She was, in his eyes, infallible-- and this Lady Whistletown had hardly proven herself as a pillar of truth, seeing how his own rumors were twisted with lasciviousness. No, Conrad had been happy enough to write the whole thing off as the boredom of some sad, petty wife somewhere. If it was mentioned in his company, he put a swift end to such conversations and that was that. 

Until Lord Ridel himself saw it fit to write, informing Conrad of the clandestine relationship forming between himself and Lydia. It did not necessarily mean the rumors were true, but it certainly did throw his assuredness into question. 

“None of them seem right?” He turned, nodding his head as he looked at her. “I can think of a few. You could try I’m sorry, brother, for putting our family name in jeopardy. Or perhaps, it was foolish of me to act with impunity. How about, I should have come to you, I should have done this properly.” His voice was calm, even, but dangerously sharp. 

“My God, Lydia...” He shut his eyes, and took a breath. “I am going to give you an opportunity to explain yourself. Do not lie to me.”

The housekeeper, Moira, was the one to answer the door. Her silvery hair was secured beneath her bonnet, but her blue eyes did not demure to the floor when she realized who it was. “Lord Mowbray, what a pleasant surprise.”

She led him in. “He means to see you in the study.” Her voice lowered, more conspiratorial. “You would not believe the riffraff he allows in here most nights. I long for the days of his smaller gatherings with you and Im–hm,” she cut herself off and mounted the stairs, quieting.

“Here we are.”

Sidney looked up from his desk with what seemed like a surprised smile. “Ah! Mowbray. So punctual, as usual.” Moira closed the door behind her, leaving the two alone.

“I would stand to greet you, but the cat–” Sidney motioned toward the sleeping gray cat in his lap and then gestured for Mowbray to sit across from him at the desk. The left chair, not the right.

“I have drawn up a plan which I think will be to our mutual benefit.” Sidney took up one of the files on his desk and handed it across to Conrad with a smile that wasn’t entirely smug. At that moment, the cat woke, saw a new presence in the room, and hopped onto the desk. The cat sat on the corner closest to Conrad, and swished its tail.

“I suppose you will notice the business changed hands after Imre’s death.” Sidney’s expression dimmed, his eyes seemed to go out of focus. “And so the venture is entirely in my name, but you will find that I have given you a generous stake in the profits.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his knee, which was crossed over his other leg. The cat continued to stare at Conrad.

“If you do not agree, then I am more than happy to remove you from any earnings at all. It is a risky venture, that.” Opium. “Since it was your plan with Imre, I have given you two thirds of the earnings. Do you find it fair, Conrad?”

• • • 

Moira opened the door, her cool blue eyes taking him with an appraising sweep. He smiled, tipping his head in greeting as he stepped through the threshold and handed her his hat. He had a genuine affection for the housekeeper, something born out of nostalgia and the general sort of maternal appreciation he seemed to harbor for all staff-women over a certain age. “It seems Sidney has some amount of common sense,” he teased, “It is a pleasure to see you.”

Conrad followed behind her, his eyes flitting around the house as they moved through it. His father would be disgusted at the near indistinguishable line between old blood money and this new wealth of businessmen. He was not quite fond of Conrad own ventures. finding land to be the well of infinite fortune. The future, and people like Sidney Wyatt, seemed to disagree. 

So consumed was he in his curiosity that he was only half listening to Moira, catching her at the exact point in which she pulled up short. He pretended not to notice. 

With a word of thanks, he stepped into study, and made his way to proffered chair, but he did not sit, not yet. 

Instead he stood with his hands atop the back, leaning onto the wooden frame as his eyes scanned the room and Sidney talked. Finally, his gaze landed upon the man across from him, but still he did not talk. Taking the file, Conrad stood up straight to flick through it. Numbers, names, dates, locations, projections... It was all there, neat and tidy, ink and paper. 

Closing the file, Conrad tossed it back onto the desk. His gaze flickered to the cat who watched him with round yellow eyes, its heart shaped face striking him as quite familiar. 

“Why cut me in at all?” He asked, a small knot in his brow, “As you’ve said, the entire enterprise is now in your name, and as your clever document maps out, it’s quite a lot of money... You have no obligation to me, Wyatt, so why bother?” 

hermajesty-charlotte​:​

There was, of course, only the briefest space for conversation before the doors swung open, guided by gloved hands. The queen did not care for whispers in rooms she was not a part of; nor was she interested in being kept waiting.

Phoebe, her backside like a cotton puff, leapt from Charlotte’s lap and began to sniff one of the table legs, finding it of particular interest.

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia,” announced the doorman, giving the princess a perfunctory bow. “And–” as an afterthought. “The Lord Conrad Mowbray.”

Charlotte looked between the pair: with curiosity first, at her daughter. She looked at Amelia often, usually when she was in some state of perplexity – pausing to help a child across a puddle, mincing in her reticule for some frippery or another, staring wistfully at the antique vase of lilies upon the receiving table. Presentation made her different, Charlotte studied through a critical eye. Lavender suited her, particularly when the fabric undulated to blue. Charlotte nodded, and a footman stepped forward to usher the princess into a chair. There was something to be said for Amelia’s understated prettiness.

The same could not be said for the Lord Mowbray. Charlotte looked him over, toe to head, noted the wrinkled edge of the ribbon pulling back his hair – or, she thought uncharitably, most of it. His boots shone but his trousers lacked the fashionable fit. Curious.

Another nod, another chair.

“Daughter,” greeted the queen. “Lord Mowbray.” Charlotte’s feather, pluming high over her head, wafted in the faint breeze. She gestured to the table before her, two gentlemen stepping forward to place a tea tray, tarts, an array of finger-sandwiches.

“I do hope you enjoy assam,” said the queen. “For it is my particular favorite.”

.

I should think any gentleman would be honored to grace your dance card, Lady Mulgrave had insisted, but Conrad’s name had never appeared.

He had known Amelia was in attendance, that much was confirmed as he greeted her, which could only suggest that sharing a dance was not the honor some might consider it to be. The realization stung in a distant sort of way, a feeling that was quickly followed by shame. A person could not be liked by everyone, and only those with an unflattering ego expected as much.

She tried to be satisfied that Lord Mowbray was, as ever, civil, though it continued to be colored by his persistent reserve. She was spared the need for imminent niceties as the doors to the state room were thrown up and the urge to please was tugged toward the weight of the crown. The choreography demanded by duty familiar, putting Amelia through the well-ingrained motions of entertaining as the trio settled around the table.

Acquiescence: assam held a malty flavor with little sweetness, she would have preferred a selection reminiscent of the fruits of summer, raspberry or peach. Amelia poured a full cup for her mother, Lord Mowbray, then herself. The first sip was taken with a smile. “Soon to be our favorite as well, I am sure. You always choose well.”

Courtesy: selecting a sandwich was a matter of making an unobtrusive choice. There was salmon, which her mother liked, while roastbeef seemed the selection Lord Mowbray would prefer. Amelia settled for a thinly stuffed watercress sandwich, placing the meager delicately on her place.

Finally, gentility: “Lord Mowbray was only just asking how I fared during the Colchester’s affair. We saw so little of each other.” Amelia paused to let that salient point hang in the air a moment, taking another reluctant small sip from her gilded teacup. “He was never in want of company, always with partner or another throughout the evening. I have yet to make his acquaintance, but Mr. Wyatt seems charming company, Lord Mowbray.”

@conradmowbray​

He hid his reluctance in a bow, hoping he had fixed his face to one of honored appreciation of attending tea with Her Majesty the Queen and the lovely Princess Amelia. The stiffness in his shoulders, and the attempt at a smile told him he was at least partially succeeding. Conrad glanced at Amelia, unable to help it as she poured him a glass of tea, watching as the steam rose up to kiss her fingers. His turned his attention to Queen Charlotte instead, somehow finding her less unsettling. 

“All of England will be drinking Assam by summer’s end,” Conrad concurred, reaching forward to take his cup in hand. He had never been the most fond of tea. He preferred it’s bolder cousin, coffee, and more distant relative, whiskey. But perhaps what he disliked most about tea was it’s annoying habit of inhibiting conversation. People seemed to forget the topic at hand whenever a cup of tea was upon the table. They were called here for a reason, and yet chatter prevailed as it always did when finger sandwiches were upon plates. 

He did not reach for one. 

When his gaze shifted back toward Amelia, it felt as though he were glancing back in time, finding a younger version of the Queen, her beauty offered rather than earned. And though her words pricked a nerve, he was quick to soothe it and slow to respond, his voice firm. 

“As you might have heard I was selected to serve on the Golden Swan Committee alongside Lord Effingham, and as you’ve mention, Mr. Wyatt. I was not privy to his charm, but his opinions were sufficient.

“And I should say--” he turned back to the Queen, “that my pursuits this past month have not been my own. I should say I am more of an ambassador than anything.”

He had always been good at controlling his emotions-- or, rather, cinching them off like a bleeding wound. It was rather easy: locate the emotion, label it, and then find a place to put it, where it would be known but not felt, understood but not cared for. 

Even now, sitting in his study, finger tapping against a piece of parchment, thumb caught between his teeth, even with his sister’s ruin at the brink he was calm. The doors opened, his butler beginning to announce Lydia’s arrival when Conrad shooed him away. 

Dear Lord Mowbray,

I appreciated your letter very much and am relieved to know that we are both of the purest intentions regarding our friendship. Fortunately, both my mother and sister are aware that the rumors are false but the ton is still fast to cast judgments. I do not see why, surely, there is more interesting material to read. I could name a few novels quite easily, especially if it is scandal that causes interest. I just finished reading Voltaire’s Candide and I should say it has enough to make those patronesses faint, though I might not recommend it, it was rather sordid and depressing. 

We’ve had several invitations revoked in light of Lady Whistledown but I am hopeful all will be forgotten soon, it is not as if there’s any truth to the rumor to keep it alive. Perhaps your kindness in correcting those who have mentioned it to you will help the matter resolve itself more quickly.

I would also like to continue our discussion from the dance. I intend to meet with Mr. Wyatt soon, I understand you are on better terms, hopefully I might gain some insight through him prior to our meeting. As for where you and I shall meet or how we shall manage it apart from prying eyes, I am not sure. For myself I’m not concerned, I have no great intentions this season but my sister does and I do not wish to cause her more harm. Perhaps you know some eligible for her?

Pardon my rambling, I shall be glad to meet where you suggest.

Most sincerely,

•

Miss Crow, 

I am gladdened to hear we are not only of the same understanding, but that you find the baseless writing spectacle is quite a simpleminded form of entertainment as well. I cannot say that I have read Voltaire, and I might go so far as to admit I am quite cyclical in my literature, but I will take your word for it. It seems each time I return to London, it offers me another reason to flee from it’s city limits. Your optimism is permitted, the people of our particular society are fickle and rather faithless. Come next week someone else will be pinned beneath their scrutiny, likely the very families that revoked your invitations. 

But I did not write you to speak only of rumors, but also theories or perhaps, suspicions is a better term. I swear not to ridicule you, Miss Crow, even if there is little evidence beyond the feeling of a sister, and a friend to suggest anything but the accepted truth. 

In relation to Mr. Wyatt, I would only suggest you tread carefully. He is a man who looks out for himself before all others, and I would not like to see you caught in his web of self importance. I might also add that his reputation is not well respected, and association may come at a cost, especially for an unmarried woman such as yourself. Caution, if you must pursue him. 

As for a meeting place, might St. George’s be appropriate? No one would dare question our presence on holy grounds, and it might allow for quiet conversation. Perhaps noon, Wednesday?

With regards,  

hermajesty-charlotte​:

@conradmowbray

Addr: The Lord Conrad Mowbray

Her Majesty The Queen has granted an audience to be held at 2 o’clock in the Afternoon, the Sixteenth of August to explain your Behaviour at a recent Public Engagement.

—

@kleineschatz

15 August 1800 Almost evening

“Amelia.”

The girl was nearly out of her sights before Charlotte had finished her sip, the coffee piping hot and filled with cream. She stared at her daughter, her shoulders erect. Charlotte waited for her to turn.

“You will attend tea with the Lord Mowbray and I tomorrow.”

.

Tea was never just tea. What might have been a question had been posed as a command. Her Majesty moved and spoke with purpose. There was nothing to do but issue a bright smile that contradicted the slice of panic Amelia felt in her chest. “As you wish, Mutti.” 

__

“He was quite literally swanning about the room with the lady in white.” 

“The next dance was with Mr. Wyatt. They looked terribly cozy, did they not?”

“I did not see him for the rest of the evening. Perhaps he took to the garden for a particular liaison?” 

“Ladies.” A single word, unusually sharp in tone, silenced the gossip thrown about Amelia’s dressing room. There were times when she was reminded that she was the Queen’s daughter. 

She felt unsettled in a way she didn’t like. She moved a bottle of scent from one side of the mirror to the other, nudging disordered bottles into order. Calming chaos. 

(Was Mr. Wyatt the especially tall gentleman with a charming grin? And what of the lady in white who he had been all too happy to dance with? Lord Mowbray was obviously not averse to dancing, so why had he not deemed her fit? )

“Lady Peebles, if you would be so kind as to help me with the buttons of my dress? Lady Findley, the rouge if you will.”

__

Lavender was meant to be a soothing color, but being clothed in it did little soothe Amelia’s nerves as she waited anxiously in the hall adjacent to the receiving room at Buckingham House. 

Her hand drifted up to her ear, fidgeting with the dangling pearl of her earring. Just as quickly she caught notice of the restless gesture and gave the soft inside of her wrist a small pinch. She rearranged her hands clasped loosely in front of her, gnawing discreetly on the inside of her cheek instead. 

It was difficult to decide which was more daunting: facing Her Majesty’s disapproval or Conrad’s. 

@conradmowbray

“Christ’s sake!” Conrad tossed the letter onto his desk, and collapsed back in his chair. The hearth was cold, the early morning light slanting in through the windows, exposing dust particles in the warming air. Head pounding, hungover and sleepless, the man could think of a thousand things he would rather do than be ushered before the Queen. 

But it will be an honor, came the nasally voice of a loyal subject. 

The Princess might be in attendance, rang a somewhat less virtuous voice. 

He rubbed his lip, staring down at Her Majesty’s crest. It didn’t matter one way or another. He would attend, of course he would. 

__

He smelled of bergamot and cedarwood, horsehair and likely sweat-- Conrad was far too aware of himself. Aware of the hair spilling onto his forehead, swiped back hastily as he was shown through the palace to the receiving room. He though of every step, the sound of his footfall on marble floors, or perhaps they were ivory or quartz. He swallowed and even that felt full of forethought and pretense, as though the Queen’s sharp gaze was already upon him. 

And then suddenly they’d entered a hall lined with portraits of men and women long dead, their curious eyes watching from beyond the grave. And there, dressed in a shade of soft summer, was Princess Amelia. 

There was no uncertainty about what this tea would encompass. 

Conrad bowed, grateful that it kept his eyes low. He only glanced at he stood straight, careful to keep proper distance. He needn’t be writing his father due about misbehavior, especially where it concerned the royal family. 

“Your highness,” he greeted, voice low as not to call attention. To whom he was not sure. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Did you enjoy yourself at the Colchester’s soiree?” Recalling the pestering disappointment of not sharing a dance, he was suddenly glad for it. Less to explain away. 

As agreed upon, Conrad dismounted his horse at 15 Bury St on Sunday afternoon as the unrelenting summer sun reached it’s apex in the sky. The building before him was impressive, a testament to the success of the man who owned it. And despite all his reasons for disliking the man, and his misgivings about the meeting at hand, Conrad could not deny that Sidney Wyatt was truly skilled at the art of business. He had risen above his station, had become lined with enough money, enough influence to brush shoulders with Earls, and Dukes, and even royalty. 

Still, he could not ignore the turmoil in his gut, the odd mixture of dread, and excitement. To go into business with this man could give Conrad a name of his own, something separate of the family, a purpose beyond that of a second, lesser son. And yet he did not trust Wyatt. Not for a single second, not even an inch. 

Handing his reins off to a staff member, Conrad climbed the stairs to the front door and rapped twice, and waited. 

Dear Miss Crow, 

I pray do not mind my unprompted correspondence, it is only that I thought it more appropriate to write than to call upon you under the circumstances. It seems London is even more unpleasant than I remembered, as it now provides refuge for a Lady Whistletown, or some other. I did not read the publication until more than one gentlemen found it suitable to congratulate me on my early pursuit. Upon finding a copy of the cursed paper, I was quite appalled to find that this is what our English brethren consider as literature: hopped up farces of no credibility. The short of it is that I quickly and effectively set the record straight. 

And I wished to make it clear to you that my intentions are nothing but pure and admirable, Miss Crow. You are the sister of my dear departed friend, and I ask for nothing from you but a sense of kinship. I hope that you feel the same, and that the consequences of Whistletown’s distasteful circulars. 

And in consideration of our conversation at the Colchester’s soiree, I would like to discuss the topic further. Perhaps when we are not dancing, and away from the eyes of the ton. If this interests you, please respond in kind. 

With regards, 

Lord C. Mowbray

Amelia: Devout, compassionate, arresting, noble