Chapter 23: Hell hath no fury

I was sitting in my office, writing a letter to Mimi, when I heard the clattering of hooves, the cracking of a carriage whip, and the rumble of wheels over the cobbled courtyard. I put down my quill and looked from the window. A large coach, drawn by six horses, pulled up at the entrance to the building. The carriage and horses were all liberally splattered with mud; the weather had become slightly milder, and former ice bound roads were now quagmires.
A figure got from the carriage, the thatch of tow coloured, dishevelled hair could only belong to Sir Boris Crossley. I threw open the window and called down to him. Boris looked up at me with a great beam on his face.

“I hope you have a warm fire in your room, and a warm woman to serve the brandy, Elijah.” He shouted up to me.
Five minutes later Boris was sitting opposite me, with a glass of brandy in his hand and his bootless feet toasting in front of the fire.

“I suppose two out of three ain’t bad,” he said. “Hopefully the missing article can be arranged to warm my bed tonight? It has been a most uncomfortable and cold journey from Milan, and I need something warm, both inside and beside me.”

For an hour or so he gave me all the news from England, mostly dealing with XTC, the Xanadu Trading Company, of which I was a partner. The business was growing in leaps and bounds, with the return on my investment making me a rich man. Paloma was in process of setting up another ‘Xanadu Pleasure Dome’ – a brothel-cum-restaurant-cum gaming rooms – in the spa town of Harrogate in the county of Yorkshire. I was astonished, but immensely pleased, to learn that the Xanadu Pleasure Dome in Brighton was now under the management of Casper Shufflebottom and his wife Bathsheba, formerly Dawkins.
It was no less of a surprise when Boris informed me Lillian Skinner was living in India. She had gone there to recruit nautch dancing girls to work in XTC, and according to Boris, had gone native, and married some Indian medicine wallah in Madras.

“She sends a half dozen girls to England every six months, and the girls, who are beautiful and extremely supple, are in great demand. We have men a queuing for hours to engage their services.”

Eventually Boris fell silent, and stared into the glowing fire. A feeling of foreboding enveloped me.

“Why are you here, Boris?”

“Well, as I was in the area, and as we have...”

“Milan is hardly ‘in the area’, Boris; it is at least two hundred miles away. A journey of that length in mid-winter is not taken on a whim. So, why are you really here?”

Boris continued to stare at the fire as he mumbled. “Orders, from His Nibs himself, the Duke of Wellington. You are to accompany Captain Keane on a relocation assignment.”
He looked up at me with an earnest expression on his face.
“Believe me Elijah, I tried to get the order rescinded, but Lord Clacton, our ambassador in Milan, was adamant the order must be obeyed.”

I jumped to my feet. “Damn it all! I have informed Horse Guards I am retiring from service, and will award a brevet rank to the senior British officer in charge of the Greek volunteer training team to take over my duties...”

“The Greek volunteer scheme ended as from the start of the year, and the relocation order does not come from Horse Guards, Elijah, but from Wellington, and the most senior of the Irish lords.”
He gave me a straight look. “You told Ferdinando Stanley you were ‘enlisted for life’ when he offered you employment. Well, there is plenty of life left in you Jack, and a lifetime of service available to King and Country.”

I slumped back into my chair. “Tell me the worst.”

“You are required to assist in a boxing,” he said, and then pushed a copy of the London Times across the desk to me.
“Open the paper at page six, and read the article half way down the page.”

I looked as directed. Printed beneath an illustration of a grave/mausoleum was the title ‘The Grave of Lord Castlereagh’ and a paragraph describing the memorial, and the sum of money reputed to have cost.
The writer continued.
‘Our readers may be interested in Lord Byron’s appreciation of this magnificent funerary edifice, which is appended below.

I gave a snort of suppressed laughter, and then looked enquiringly at Boris.
“And this childish vulgarity has caused Wellington to despatch you to Livorno to engage my services, and thus prevent me leaving for France?”

“Not just Wellington, the entire select committee want Byron boxed and...”

“Byron is to be killed for this ... juvenile ... jape?”

Boris leaned forward across the desk, his face stern.
“Byron has been a thorn in the side of the government for years, but he has now overstepped the mark...”

“By writing a rude but amusing couplet?” I snorted in anger.
“And because of a schoolboy prank I am to be prevented from leaving for Château Blanchard and marrying Mimi Renoir.”
I shook my head violently. “Damn it, Boris, I will not do it.”

It was his turn to show anger.
“Firstly, Elijah, you are still a member of the Relocation Bureau. You may eventually retire from the army, but you will remain a member of the Box Office until I say so. Secondly, you are not the one to box Byron but the necessary accessory of Captain Keane, who will. Thirdly, Byron was behind the plot to blackmail Castlereagh, by fooling him in to consorting with a Molly, who Castlereagh thought was a she.”
His expression softened. “I was unaware you were affianced, Elijah, and it pains me to think you will not be able to join your betrothed yet, but you are the only man with the necessary contacts with Byron to get near him.”

I was puzzled. “Byron has guards surrounding him? Whatever for, or have you already tried a boxing and failed?”

“We never fail in a boxing, Elijah,” Sir Boris replied in an indignant tone of voice.
“Byron is on his way to Missolonghi –” he saw bewilderment on my face and explained. “It is a port in Greece which has successfully survived two sieges by the Ottomans, and is now something of a talisman for the Greek Independence movement.”
He continued, “Byron may already be there by now. Once in Greece those Souliote brigands will be his constant companions - in fact he has a score of them who guard him night and day, and call themselves ‘Lord Byron’s Companions’, and anyone he does not know will be unable to get near him. You are acquainted with him; I believe he inspected a group of the Greek volunteers that were trained here?”