Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN part 1

One may sometimes wonder at the blinding nature which binds a person once the objective goal of an inner resolve is so immense and overwhelming in its aspect that naught else in the whole world matters. Thus it was that whilst Lord Seyton Clover and his gang of two sat jawing one wintery afternoon at the lodgings which they had secured in Paris, they were oblivious as to the fearsome nature of events - physical and political - which were even then, unfolding about them. 

Had they been able to look forward a few months, the dreadful shadow of the guillotine would have marred their thoughts and they should not have been able to stop their ears up against the tortured cries of those starvelings freshly released from the Bastille. Nor indeed, of those unhappy, hungry-eyed citizens who at that very time made their rumblings felt - and their grumbling bellies - upon the streets of Paris. 

The threesome, however, were intent on only one thing. The finding and the salvation of the missing girl. Charity Cottrell. 

For so enflamed and enthusiastic had Fibbins become that, upon often viewing the downcast and agonised expression on his master’s face, he would have happily bartered his own soul, or his sister’s, if this would prove the means to restore His Lordship’s good demeanour. And this demeanour obviously now paraded under the guise of the missing Miss Cottrell. 

No-one, so John Fibbins had informed Lord Seyton Clover, in decent society would probably admit to knowing the whereabouts of that den of corruption and vice which he had reason to suspect Charity had been spirited away to. But, if needs be, he - John Fibbins, - born of Cheapside, London, Angleterre in the year A.D. 1762, would be only too glad to find its location. By whatever means! He imparted the grist of his thoughts to His Lordship. 

He, for his part, became thoughtful. He turned and fixed a forceful eye upon his man. John Fibbins shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Don’t flinch fellow, for I’ll not bite your head orf. I was merely wondering about ways in which we may be able to obtain more accurate details of this place, this ‘House of Pleasure’, where you seem so certain that my eerh humm, cousin, has had Charity conveyed to. Now, if I recall correctly, did you not tell me yourself that there is a man called Mellors wrapped up in this business somewhere? And you believe him to disguise himself, both with apparel and with trade, to undertake his many nefarious deeds?” 

“Aye, that is correct, Your Lordship.” “Now, did you not also, John Fibbins, tell me of some japes and misdemeanours you yourself were involved in, in your adolescence, albeit, before you forged papers of credit to enter my service?” “Urrr humm. Yes, Your Lordship; that is also correct.” “Then surely it follows, man, that birds of a feather, or those appearing to be of a feather, are most likely to flock to the same nests. Especially if they be migratory birds and there is a common roosting spot known to their kind?” 

Fibbins scratched his head, a sly smile appearing on his face: “I do believe I get Your Lordship's meaning. Let me think...” “Think fast and think hard, Fibbins. Miss Cottrell is indisputably in the gravest peril. Both moral,” and here he groaned silently, “and, alas, also physical.” Silence invaded the room so that there was no noise apart from Molly's busy fingers stitching away at some piece of embroidery, her gaze nonetheless as unwavering and intent as that which Lord Seyton Clover directed upon John Fibbins. 

Fibbins broke the silence by scratching his head hard and audibly. He made to speak: “Let me see. Now, there used to be a most dastardly villain, a mortal of great evil repute ... what was ’is name? Got it! Black Jake de Villiers! That’s yer man, Your Lordship. He’s supposed to 'ave some watering-hole somewheres about in Paree and I daresay, should I need to go looking, that’s where I’m most like to get the information we require.”

“So be it then, John. I shall furnish you with whatever you may think as necessary for disguise. For we cannot have you going as you are now.”