Chapter Text
His eyes opened slowly and looked towards his bedroom window. The sky was still a rich cobalt blue. The sun had not yet risen. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut again. He brought a hand to his brow and massaged it roughly.
Before he could properly dip his toe into the deep, dark well of self-pity that he would happily wallow in this morning—because it was going to be a very long day—there was a deep, chesty groan from his right. It caused the bed to vibrate a little under him.
He breathed out a chuckle, reached a hand over, and carded it through the wiry fur on Merlin’s chest.
“I know,” he muttered, before sitting up, “It is early.”
Merlin groaned again.
Reginald smirked and shook his head a little, before moving off the bed and standing to his feet. He rang for Harris and stepped to the opposite side of the bed to stare down at his four-legged companion.
“Come now. Lots to get done.”
Merlin’s one upward facing eye was watching him, but the wolfhound did not move.
“Up!” he commanded.
The dog huffed.
Reginald patted his chest twice, before moving a hand up to snake it under the dog’s large neck. He pulled up, lifting Merlin’s massive head off the mattress with a wheeze.
Merlin groaned, yet again, and somehow seemed to press all seventy of his kilos even deeper into the bed.
“We are…getting…up…you…beast!”
“Merlin! Up now, my darling!” Mrs. Radcliffe’s voice sang into the room from the hall.
Merlin immediately shot to his feet and hopped down off the bed. He circled around once, whipping at Reginald’s shins with his tail. He crouched down into a stretch that caused the whole of his body to tremble, before slowly padding towards the door, side-stepping Mister Harris, who was halfway into the room by now.
Reginald looked to Harris. His valet was a serious man, some would even say severe. He did not suffer foolishness. He did not tolerate any impropriety. He was not a friendly or lighthearted sort. Fair—yes. Honest—absolutely. Still, in that moment his eyes shined with amusement at the look of incredulity on the face of his employer.
“Fret not, my lord!” Mrs. Radcliffe cooed, and through the doorframe he watched as her silhouette bent down to scratch at Merlin’s shoulder. A hefty back paw kicked up a little, “They listen the least to those they love the most. Much like small children.”
And she would know, having had six of her own.
“And I would know, having had six of my own little babies. Come now Merlin, let’s get you outside.”
“If you could please remind him who supplies his chum, Mrs. Radcliffe!” Reginald called out after her, but he could hear that she was already most of the way down the corridor, rambling some nonsense at his dog.
“Shall I have a maid fetch some tea, my lord? Or will you wait to have it with your breakfast?” Harris asked him then.
“No tea,” Reginald answered him curtly, as he pulled his nightshirt over his head, “No breakfast, just some fruit. I will take it here. And that Turkish coffee, for it will be a long day indeed.”
“Yes, my lord,” Harris said evenly as he rang for a maid.
“The ladies should arrive shortly. I will be…out. Until the presentation. I shall join them there,” Reginald announced as he moved to face Harris.
Harris just nodded as he applied the shaving lather onto Reginald’s chin.
_______
As soon as he was dressed and nourished, Lord Reginald Fife, fled from his townhome.
He absentmindedly meandered the streets of Mayfair that morning, walking stick in one hand, and a crumpled up letter clutched in the other. It was still quiet out, the only other people he encountered were the servants who buzzed about on various tasks for their households, on this a most eventful day.
The official start of a new season. Hundreds of high bred young ladies would be presented to the Queen today, among them, Reginald’s sister.
He happened upon a bench and sat, heaving out a sigh as he raised the letter to his face to read it—again; for the hundredth time since he had received it.
The thousandth? He did not know.
Nephew.
I am writing to inform you, and it should of course come as no surprise, that your sister and I shall journey to London in four month’s time.
The young miss has assured me that she feels a readiness, an eagerness, to enter society this year. One that was not yet present for her at our last opportunity.
I trust that you shall have your household prepared to welcome us. Enclosed you will find instructions to provide to London’s finest modiste, as well as a list of instructions and essential items, beyond what is immediately apparent, for you to pass along to Mrs. Radcliffe.
I will send along further correspondence nearer to our final approach.
Sincere regards,
The Dowager Baroness Henrietta Rollins
He dragged a hand down his face, and read it again.
And then he read it again.
Reginald had not responded to his great aunt, because what was there even to say? She was not asking his permission to descend upon his home and wreak havoc on the tenuous peace he found there.
Only there.
She trusted that he would prepare his staff. She trusted that he would pass along her exhaustively detailed instructions. And she made no additional requests of him, so what else was there to say?
She did not need to know that he had nearly wept when he received her missive; her unwitting proclamation that his life was about to finally change.
It would be a very welcome change; the change that occupied all his fantasies for more years than he could count. The fact that it was now happening; that the pieces were being placed upon the board; it had rocked him.
His little sister was, at long last, making her way to London, to find herself a husband. His little sister would start a family. His little sister would produce an heir to inherit their father’s Earldom—his Earldom
About bloody time.
He received the letter from his aunt, around the same time last year.
She is not ready, and I will not see her forced.
It took all of his will—all of his strength—not to ride straight through to Cumberland, march straight into his aunt’s grand old manor, grab Rebecca by her pretty little ears, and drag her back with him.
Drag her back to London to meet her fate; to do her duty.
Because he was absolutely sick of doing his.
Of course, he did not. He would not force her. Because nothing in his life, nothing in the world, mattered to him as much as his little sister. There was nothing in the world he loved as much as his litter sister; however much he might also detest her.
His baby sister.
The author of all of his misfortune.
She had killed his mother.
She had killed his father.
She was death incarnate, moving through the world masked as a young girl of impeccable breeding.
That was not fair. Of course it wasn’t fair. His mother died birthing her. His father…died.
By his own hand.
But some childish, unreasonable, still brokenhearted part of him; bitter and resentful; could not stand to look at her.
So he had not—not in five years.
Take care of your sister.
It was his father’s last request of him, nineteen years ago; the last line written in his little note.
I am shattered beyond repair.
The first line.
Prick.
Reginald sighed, and rose to his feet.
He had taken care of her.
He had provided for her financially. He has set aside her sizable dowry. He paid for her hairpins, and her horses, and her harps. He ensured that she was well educated, well finished.
And he sent her hundreds of miles away to their Aunt Henrietta, so that she could be raised with love, a luxury he was not afforded—not after she came into this world.
He had done his duty.
It was her turn.
His little sister would be presented to the Queen today.
She would marry, this season.
She would produce the heir.
And he would finally, actually, be free.
Free to leave everything in the exceedingly capable hands of his steward who had guided him since he was twelve years old; who had skillfully managed his estate, his lands, and his people while he was at Eton and at Oxford; and who advised him to this day, as he managed it all himself, rather impressively, if begrudgingly.
To his steward and to his sister’s husband.
Then he would be free to live his life. Free to sample delights worldwide; to leisurely sip the finest blood red wine at dusk on some terrace in some vineyard in France; to smoke the sweetest American tobacco in some gambling hall in down some alley in New York; to plow his way through whores, and widows, and farm girls in Morocco, or Russia, or Greece.
He would be free to leave and stay gone.
He had earned this.
He was due.
Everything had to go perfectly.
He had a plan, and it had to go perfectly.
First step; the presentation.
Second step; blackmail Lady Whistledown.