Page 8 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
He could not, for instance, have ever been prepared for the broad-brimmed hat that tilted lasciviously over the brow. And nothing in his nature had been fortified to withstand the terror of trousers that were the colour of milky tea, held as they were with suspenders that looked to be made of snakeskin – or some terrible beast that slithered rather than walked. He could not have predicted, were he to guess for a thousand years and a year, that the man forecasted to leave such a grand impression on him would arrive bedecked in sparkling rubies on every finger, four of which appendages clasped a cane of polished maple, a roaring lion’s head forged in gleaming silver at its tip.
“Powell!” exclaimed Lord Stamford, thrusting out a rigid arm.
“My dear Lord,” said Ethan Powell, taking the hand tightly, “I was wondering if I was welcome.”
“Why, you’re always welcome.”
“Pity. Being welcome is so boring. I much prefer being unwelcome. Rattling cages from the outside is much more fulfilling than gripping at the bars that have sealed behind you from the inside. Don’t you agree, Foster?”
The butler puffed out his chest. “’Tis not my place to agree or disagree, sir. I am just a butler.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Foster. You’re a cage-rattler if I ever saw one. Isn’t he, Stamford?”
Foster cleared his throat, a bovine sound that buzzed in the room.
“Ethan,” said Lord Stamford, “go easy on Foster. He’s our man and a credit to his race.”
“Thank you, M’Lord.”
“Not at all, Foster.”
“Foster?” said Powell.
“Sir?”
“Your launderers have told me that your sense of humour will be a little late in the return. Is that alright?”
The man’s jaw stiffened, and he turned on his heel to dispose of Powell’s things.
“Ethan,” said Lord Stamford, “I must say, your humour is often unbecoming.”
“We shall wait, then, and see what becomes of it. And whom do we have here?”
Powell approached Lord Oliver like a great cloud propelled by a gust, his eyes sparkling with possibility.
“Ah, allow me to introduce Lord Oliver Hartwell.”
“How do you do,” said Lord Oliver, nodding courteously.
“I do well most of the time.”
Oliver fumbled for words. “Er ... I hear you and His Lordship served together in the war.”
Powell rolled his eyes. “That old story. Really, Stamford, you must do your best to procure new material.”
“Mr Powell saved my life.”
“You won’t ever allow me to live it down, will you? I’ve atoned for that most egregious offence, M’Lord, I assure you.”
Oliver smiled outwardly, while inwardly, a whirlwind of confusion assailed every one of his sensibilities.
“Well,” he said in an attempt to recover, “you must be a most courageous and moral man, Mr Powell.”
“Courageous?” said Powell as if the word were a poison. “Moral? My dear fellow, the effects of courage are the same even if one is merelypretendingto be courageous. And as for morals, I have none. I am, on the other hand, highly ethical. Morality is a false principle conjured by robed eunuchs to beguile the innocent into travelling in the direction opposite from sainthood. Ethics, however, are as solid as adamant, and the foundation upon which the soul may stand up and sing.”
Oliver was struck dumb. “I-“ he began, then faltered.
“No need to feel ashamed,” said Lord Stamford, placing a hand upon the man’s shoulder. “He does this to everyone.”
