Alistair Croft’s visage, often florid from his nightly excesses, appeared particularly so this morning, eyes heavy-lidded beneath brows perpetually furrowed by the previous evening’s pursuits. He truly resembled a plucked pheasant, ruddy and ill-tempered. I merely nudged a silver salver bearing a small porcelain cup of potent Turkish coffee towards him, feigning mild exasperation.
“Pray, cease looking as if you’d wrestled a bear, Alistair. This might restore some semblance of humanity.”
“A thousand thanks, Julian,” Alistair grunted, seizing the cup.
“Did your father not rage this morning?”
“Thankfully, you spared me that lecture.”
He merely shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. I found myself merely pursing my mouth, a gesture of quiet amusement. Then, as I turned to reclaim my seat, my gaze settled upon a copy of the Morning Post splayed open on the mahogany table beside Alistair. My eyes lingered there.
Lord Gareth Blackwood, whose height considerably surpassed even Alistair’s, generally found himself seated nearby. I, being a handspan shorter than Alistair, often occupied a less prominent spot, a small comfort in the general order of things. It was a peculiar form of solace, being close yet not quite at the centre.
Burying even these petty observations of social pecking order, I subtly inclined my head towards Gareth.
“When did Lord Blackwood arrive?”
“No notion. He was here when I dragged myself in.”
“One who departed early last night should not appear quite so… despoiled.”
Scarcely had the words left my lips when a faint rustle broke the quiet. The gazette slid, revealing Gareth’s half-closed eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Alistair and myself before he gave a prodigious yawn, mouth stretching wide.
“...I merely promised myself ‘a short hour more’ before seeking my bed. Alas, ‘a short hour’ proved rather elastic.”
Yawns, it is said, are remarkably contagious. Alistair, with a conspiratorial grin, followed suit, his own face contorting. “Confound it, Gareth. You look a veritable wastrel, yet you’re oft more abstemious than Vance here.”
“To the devil with you, Alistair.”
“Indeed, you ruffian.”
Whether Gareth truly registered Alistair’s light jest, he merely leaned back and chuckled, a rich, full sound. I watched him for a moment, and our eyes met. He glanced towards the arched window, then back to me. Feeling a strange prickle beneath my skin, I rubbed my shoulder and redirected my attention to Alistair.
Atmosphere in the St. James’s Club drawing-room, even in the early hours, possessed a certain convivial hum. Such exchanges often set the tone for the day. Soon enough, young gentlemen like the Honourable Mr. Finch and the rather boorish Mr. Denham would saunter in, eager to catch a whisper of Alistair’s latest escapades. The customary routine would unfold: light banter, the clink of porcelain, and eventually, the arrival of more senior members to begin the day’s social calls.
For youths considered the very zenith of fashionable society, it was a surprisingly benign start to the morning.
But we were, at the end of it all, still but young gentlemen. Whispers of wild, reckless flirtations from the previous night, especially when Alistair was involved, often left a disagreeable taste. Yet, I played along, maintaining a façade of polite amusement.
Despite the underlying disquiet, I often found these mornings tolerable. That changed, quite dramatically, a month and a half past. The reason, regrettably, lay entirely with Master Thomas Finch.
“Gad, Finch is here.”
“Devil take it. The fellow is a veritable blight.”
“Does that creature even consider absenting himself after making such an exhibition?”
Mr. Denham openly scoffed at Master Finch, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of Denham’s finger stood Thomas Finch, awkwardly entering the room, his modest frame half-hidden by his shoulders. He shuffled towards a secluded desk in the corner, placed his somewhat worn satchel upon it, and immediately hunched over. Watching his slight figure, I exhaled a sigh laden with irritation.
Thomas Finch was utterly, hopelessly pathetic. His voice, when he dared to speak, was thin, his presence easily overlooked—a pitiable excuse for a gentleman. As the murmurs of the room swelled, Alistair glared daggers at Thomas’s bowed back, muttering a string of low curses. I loathed it. That peculiar, almost visceral sensitivity of his—it drove me quite mad.
Seizing a discarded copy of the Evening Post, Alistair balled it up in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, he hurled it at Thomas’s head. Thud. With a soft, unsettling sound, Thomas’s head slumped further onto his desk.
“Confound it, Finch! Do not parade that detestable visage first thing in the morning.”
Thomas placed his arms upon the desk and buried his face in them, doing precisely as Alistair had commanded. Yet, Alistair watched this with undisguised contempt and kicked his own desk with a resounding thud.
“Finch! Are you not to answer me?”
When Alistair abruptly stood and bellowed, Thomas, still hunched, stammered in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Y-yes, my lord.”
“Lift your head, look at me, and speak with proper address.”
Did Alistair even comprehend the sheer absurdity of his demands? The utter unreasonableness of it all forced a bitter, hollow laugh from my throat.
Whether or not he noticed my reaction, Alistair rose and approached Thomas Finch. With every deliberate step he took, the unpleasant feelings within me grew more vivid, more raw.
Alistair was closing the distance between himself and Finch. That alone made me feel as though I was losing control over the emotions I had so carefully suppressed.
This was not the same peculiar pique I felt when Alistair grew particularly jovial with Gareth. Instinctively, I knew. Deep down, I harboured something just as venomous as Alistair did. That was why watching Alistair with Gareth eventually became bearable, but his interactions with Thomas unsettled me more and more. My hands began to tremble, and I clenched them tightly, hiding them within my sleeves.
Alistair kicked Thomas’s desk with a sharp crack. The desk rattled violently, almost toppling, and Thomas jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady.
“M-my apologies, my lord.”
Alistair stood there, silently looking down at Thomas’s face. Thomas’s eyes glistened, unshed tears hovering on the verge of breaking free. Yet, in that moment, I felt as though I was the one who might burst into tears.
Alistair never made Thomas run pointless errands, not directly, but he always kept his eyes fixed upon him. If Thomas excused himself to the necessary room during a break, Alistair would still be watching his retreating figure, even whilst engaged in conversation with us. I knew because my own gaze never strayed from Alistair.
To be entirely truthful, my first impression of Master Thomas Finch had been rather unremarkable. His complexion was not precisely flawless, but his youthful features lent him a face that was, at least, agreeable to behold. When he offered a smile, it appeared genuinely warm, and even his neutral expression carried a certain quiet luminosity.
Before Alistair began his cruel sport, no one truly disliked Finch. He seemed a young gentleman who had grown up in a gentle, perhaps overly sheltered, environment. While not precisely a sociable creature, preferring his own company, there was no discernible trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanour.
Most considered Thomas Finch a decent enough sort. Since he never flaunted the advantages of his upbringing, he garnered even more subtle approbation. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that, by all accounts, was Master Thomas Finch.
But I, for my part, had never particularly taken to him from the outset. Nor did I harbour any genuine animosity—I simply did not care. To say he was not even on my radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I was conversing with my companions, with Alistair, or with Gareth’s small circle, and Thomas’s name arose, I would find myself casually offering a polite fabrication, asserting, “Oh, Finch? He is quite alright. Amiable enough.”
Alistair, much like myself, had paid scarce attention to Finch initially. Alistair was never one to concern himself with the less prominent members of our social stratum. After Finch’s family arrived in May, he and Alistair had not exchanged a single meaningful word until June. Such was the unremarkable state of affairs.
But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane current of events. It occurred just after luncheon, and looking back, I do not believe I have ever regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that afternoon.
Finch, as was his habit, had taken a secluded seat by a window during our brief respite from social engagements, lost in a book. He was the very embodiment of a scholar, forever burying himself in the printed page. On the other hand, I harboured a regrettable habit of being overly congenial towards individuals of good standing.
That was why, when I chanced upon Finch, I initiated a conversation regarding the volume he was engrossed in. I was no true bibliophile—pretending to be intellectually profound was more my style.
“You must possess a considerable fondness for literature, Master Finch?”
“Ah? Oh, yes, I suppose I do, Lord Julian.”
At the time, Finch and I were still but distant acquaintances. Perhaps that very distance made the interaction less awkward.
“Have you quite finished that volume?”
“Well, I am nearly at the very conclusion.”
“Then merely set it aside. The dénouement will, I assure you, prove a profound disappointment. It is one of those tomes where the ending quite ruins the entire journey.”
“You have read it, my lord?”
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I habitually sought out reviews and critiques of the books I encountered, ensuring I possessed some trenchant remark for future discourse. Drawing upon those dim recollections, I offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely sufficient to sound informed—and Finch smiled with a bright, earnest pleasure that quite caught me off guard.
“You are the first person I have encountered who has read this particular volume besides myself, Lord Julian.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating precisely why the ending proved so unsatisfactory is, to my mind, part of the enjoyment.”
“Well, naturally. Everyone’s interpretation differs.”
“Hearing you say that, my lord, merely makes me anticipate it even more.”
That ingenuous smile still lingers as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then?
After that day, Master Thomas Finch began to seek me out with increasing regularity. Though I found it a trifle irksome, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rebuffed him. Finch, with his unimpeachable reputation for studiousness, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit.
After all, books—outside of ledgers and prayer books—were practically forbidden territory for gentlemen our age. Even if one possessed the leisure, serious literature was little more than a cure for sleeplessness. For Finch, I was likely the only individual who could converse on such matters with any semblance of informed opinion.
That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them.
Lord Gareth Blackwood was to blame, though entirely unwittingly. To this very day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, one who seldom meddled in others’ affairs, chose to insert myself where I did not belong. Why Gareth, of all people, had left a private letter concerning a recent debate in the Lords wide open upon a side table for any passing eye to peruse.
I, one who detested having my own private thoughts exposed, naturally assumed Gareth would desire his privacy as well. So, with a dismissive gesture, I flipped the letter over to conceal its contents. That was when I saw it: a finely articulated, deeply insightful passage regarding the economic implications of the recent agricultural bill. A truly impressive grasp of nuance.
I blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was certainly Gareth’s hand, and certainly astute. Considering his rather lackadaisical reputation for such matters, it was a startling revelation. It was the first time one of my preconceptions was so thoroughly shattered. It was a small shock to realize Gareth possessed a far more acute intellect than I had ever credited him with. Naturally, that made me think of Alistair’s rather superficial understanding of such matters. Alistair, for all his charm, often dismissed serious discourse in favour of witty bon mots.
Perhaps that was why I felt such a strange mixture of emotions—like I had discovered a rare jewel amongst mere paste. A gentleman I had once dismissed as merely amiable proved more profound than my boisterous companion. That peculiar realization must have unsettled my composure, for I did something I would normally never have contemplated.
It was nothing grand. I merely plucked a nearby quill and, in a moment of reckless impulse, scribbled a short note at the top of Gareth’s letter.
“A salient observation, my lord. The impact on regional grain markets will be severe indeed. —V.”
The arrogance of evaluating someone’s private correspondence and offering unsolicited counsel made me feel a prickle of embarrassment, so I added a hurried postscript in my mind, justifying myself.
*P.S. Forgive my presumption, my lord. I merely turned the missive over for discretion and chanced upon your remarkable insight.*
I cannot say why I even wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been quite beside myself. Looking back, it was clear this was the first fateful stitch in what would become a complex web of entanglements. Every unravelled mess begins with a poorly fastened first button.
Had I not written that note, I would not have encountered Master Thomas Finch, carrying a volume of classical verse, moments later.