An Only Pawn

An Only Pawn: A Short Story

He says nothing to this, merely adjusts the brim of his hat—I dare not mistake it for a farewell of any kind—and turns on his heel before working his way through the maze of tables, his shoulders rising against the miasma of smoke and body odor and the breath of a dozen inebriated individuals before he ducks his head and slips out the door.

***

The entrance to Lord and Lady Drummond's townhouse is like so many others that it takes a moment for any of the details to leave an impression. There is marble beneath my feet and a chandelier dripping in crystals above me and the sickly smell of hothouse flowers pervading everything.

I shuffle along with the rest of the crowd, the scent of pomades and perfumes and too many perspiring bodies nearly strong enough to overwhelm the flowers, and my head begins to throb as my senses are inundated.

The conversations rise and fall around me, like the babbling of a brook over rocks not yet worn smooth by the words tumbling over them. A few more steps forward, another round of bows and curtseys and chins dropped towards chests, and my hosts for the evening are before me.

Lord and Lady Drummond.

I smile as I approach, and I imagine my teeth shining with a dazzling gleam, my eyes catching the light of a hundred candles as I reach out to take the hand of the woman who will no doubt be dead two... oh, let's be generous and say three hours from this, our first meeting.

"Lady Drummond," I say. And listen to my voice! All charm and grace, as if there were not a monster lurking beneath my skin, scrabbling for some measure of release. "Allow me to offer my gratitude for inviting me to your beautiful home."

There is a set to her jaw that sends a frisson of fear through me. No doubt she sees through my ruse, can see with a blink and a tilt of her lovely head that I am nothing like the character that has been put forward to them. Mr. Callum Muir, I am. And that is the one honest thing I bring beneath this roof. Here I stand, posing as a Scottish merchant and businessman. Nothing of the gentry about me, of course. But the gossip about London—so kindly spread around like shovelfuls of offal by the magnanimous Edwards—is that I possess the means to purchase half of the street on which this townhouse resides.

A fallacy of the grossest proportions, seeing as how even the fine suit currently hanging from my shoulders is on loan from none other than Edwards himself. The clothes arrived as a last-minute parcel to my rooms this very afternoon, tucked inside the folds of brown paper along with a note that I should not take it upon myself to believe that the articles will remain in my possession once this evening is over. Heaven forfend, then, if I should splatter any part of it with blood before the night has seen its end.

A quick kiss to the air above Lady Drummond's bejeweled hand, and I turn towards her husband.

"Mr. Muir!" Lord Drummond greets me as if I am the oldest and dearest of acquaintances, though I've never made eye contact with the gentleman before this night. He is tall—perhaps a full inch or two taller than myself—though he carries his height with a severity I could never begin to emulate. He is a man made of edges, all jaw and shoulders and a forehead that appears to be capable of slicing into an envelope. He takes my hand after I have given up his wife's fingers, one swift pump, and then a squeeze intended to mash my joints together, but I smile at his greeting and pick up the threads trailing from his performance.

"Your lordship, how kind of you to permit me to visit you during my stay in London. Tonight will be a flurry of activity for you, I'm sure, but perhaps tomorrow or the next day, a discussion of business matters..."

I let my words fade out, giving him all opportunity to finish the sentence however he likes. For tomorrow I hope to be gone from London. And Lord Drummond... Well, won't he be occupied with the task of burying his wife?