An Illegal Affection

A/N: The dates DO NOT in any way match up. Jonathan Wild and Charles Hitchens were arrested in different years (Wild- February 1725; executed May 1725 / Hitchens – died of injuries on the pillars in 1727) and the story as I've written it takes place in late October – early November in the mid-1720s. I just wanted to give a general description of the times – learned this stuff in university…might as well use it for something. Most things, in terms of culture and history, are more-or-less factual. Some things may have been manipulated a little bit, but generally everything presented is plausible for 1720s London. If you're curious about something PM me.

Chapter One: Life in London

Arthur shuffled down the cobble street squeezing past the numerous figures in the crowd. It was a gloomy day in London and the ground was still wet after three days of non-stop rain. He was on his way to the city baker to buy some black bread. The baker was located on the eastern side of the London Bridge. He entered it watching carts and travellers moving inward from the left side of the bridge, and those leaving the city on right. It was a fairly new rule, passed in 1722, that had been established in order to control overcrowding. The old and rather wealthy coots in Parliament were always debating whether there should be shops at all on the bridge. Arthur detested the idea of having to use Graham McKennen's bakery three streets away. The Irishman was a loud talker who had been caught accidentally spitting into this customer's bread. The blond gentleman of Great Britain, still a fairly new name given to the recently ordained country born out of the merge between England, Wales and Scotland in 1707, shuddered as he wrapped his thick, wool coat around him. It was not yet winter but the temperature was already predicting nature would send them a rather terrible one.

Arthur opened the door, trying to get inside without the cool wind following him. A small gust managed to get inside, but did not affect him for long as the stove kept the baker's store warm.

"Good morning to ya, Mr. Kirkland," a plump, red haired man grinned, "Here for your bread, sir?"

"Yes." The emerald eyed, young man nodded.

"And how is that house of yours, sir? Have you fixed the roof yet?"

Arthur grumbled. The house he inhabited had been destroyed in the London Fire of 1666. It had been rebuilt in hast and was meant to be temporary but with the expanding population of London more money had to be put into creating homes than fixing them. The fire was sixty years since ago and still London was suffering from it.

"Well," The baker placed the wrapped bread on the counter, "That'll be two shillings, please."

The young Englishman picked up the bread, placing the two silver coins on the table. "Don't suppose you also have a couple bottles of gin, do you?"

The baker laughed, "You'll have to go to the tavern for that…or find a dealer."

Arthur sighed, "I suppose I shall. Though I can't say that I'm looking forward to fighting the crowd."

"I don't blame you," The baker wrinkled his nose, "Most of 'em out there are scum. Dirty rats who throw their filth into the street, shittin' everywhere regardless of who's lookin'."

"And what else are they supposed to do? Not everyone has the luxury of owning an Ajax." Arthur stared, referring to John Harington's 1596 invention of the flushing toilet, the Ajax, pronounced a-jakes.

"I believe they're calling it the toilet now." A hearty laugh was given by the plump man.

Arthur snubbed, "Just because the French are calling it one thing, doesn't mean we have to do the same."

"Well then…off with ya!" The baker smirked, "Good luck findin' that gin!"

Arthur smiled before tucking the bread into his coat. Truthfully it would not be hard at all to find gin, since practically everyone was selling it everywhere. The problem was finding good quality gin. Most people were drinking the alcohol because water was foul and full of diseases and excrement. He looked to his left and right waiting for the right time to jump into the mob of people. If he blended with them too quickly he'd be swept away in the wrong direction.

Eyeing his chance he dashed along the crowd moving into the city and jumped into the line of people moving out. He hated having to travel farther away from the city but if it meant having a few bottles of good gin then he supposed it was worth it.

Edward Sackville's tavern was just beyond the bridge. It was a filthy world, filthier even than the bridge. The dark alleyways were filled with prostitutes and beggars, all using dirty tricks to get a hold of one's hard earned coins. He ignored them the best he could, pulling open the door and throwing himself inside.

"Mr. Sackville," He started, though his voice was easily drowned out in the sea of loud, boisterous middle-aged men. They were all rambling on about their lives, wives, mistresses, philosophy (if you could call it that) and anything else they wanted to say in the moment.

Arthur moved towards the bar, raising his voice, "Mr. Sackville,"

A thin, bearded man, with jet black hair and matching eyes turned to the call of his name, "Ah, Artie! Here for some gin!"

"I do believe that is the only reason I frequent your establishment, is it not?"

The tavern owner slammed his hand on the counter, "I swear by God, you're going to end up old, wrinkly and alone if you keep up this attitude."

"Maybe he's one of them queers!" A voice came from the crowd.

Arthur snapped his head at the voice in disgust. It was Tom Brick, a general labourer who carried coal into the city. He was a fat man in his mid-thirties, with a seamstress for a wife, a dumb son, and a seemingly mute daughter. It always amazed Arthur that this man could even be in the type of work that he was considering his heavy frame. His less than intelligent son worked alongside him – it was he who was probably doing the workload for the both of them.

"I hope you're not suggesting I'm in league with those so-called mollies." Arthur stared the man down.

"Well, you're what?" The fat man smirked, "Twenty-four? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three." Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Old enough to have a wife, aren't you? Or at least a lover."

"Hardly." Arthur turned his attention back to Edward in hopes that Tom would go back to whatever he'd been doing.

"Now, now, Tom." Edward took the hint, "Artie's not an old man quite yet. I'm sure he'll do fine."

Arthur gave a sly twist of his lips, "that's funny. Only a minute ago you were saying I'd die a lonely man if I kept up this "attitude"."

"And I meant it." Ed pulled out three bottles of gin.

Pulling out a small handful of shillings from his coat the young Englishman frowned, "You know they want to start taxing gin now."

"So I've heard." Ed collected the coins, "Fifty pounds is a lot to pay for a license. All because of that loud mouth Henry Fielding."

"The Fielding brothers," Arthur gathered the bottles of gin, "and their Bow Street Runners. Can't say I dislike them, Lord knows London needs to be cleaned up, but some suggestions of theirs seem rather impossible."

"More like stupid." Ed corrected his young client, "For most of the men gin is really all we've got. Shitty jobs, shitty water, shitty life…we need something comforting in this world."

"Yes, well, cheerio." Arthur waved and walked out of the tavern. He stopped to stare at the bridge before taking in a deep breath, a breath he wished he hadn't as someone had recently dropped a bucket of manure a few buildings away, and stepped onto the bridge.

He wiggled his way onto the side where traffic was flowing towards the city. He let the rift carry him to the other side. Reaching the end he scuttled out of the crowd and hustled home.

He was not two blocks away from his dwelling when a man came running up beside him and knocked him over. Arthur cursed at the robust but unclean man while he got to his feet. He shoved his hands into his pocket only to discover his bread and one of his gin bottles were missing. Arthur whipped himself around, "Thief!"

The man took off at full speed. To be a thief in Great Britain in the 18th century could mean death. Arthur managed to keep pace for a few streets before he lost the man in a dark alleyway. He spit on the ground thinking he'd now have to hire a thief taker, a person he'd rather not talk to. Thief takers had bad reputations, almost as bad as the thieves they were catching. A lot of them were con-artists, setting up thefts to cash in on the reward profits. Arthur wondered if he had just become a pawn in a thief takers game.

There was another option though, the Fielding brothers. Not but forty minutes ago was he chastising their style of mannerism and now he had to call on them for assistance. Emitting a small growl he turned on his heels and headed for the magistrate's office.

Before he could take two steps he was approached by a classy looking gentleman. This man was clearly well-to-do with a tricorne hat and fine greyish blue petticoat. He carried a rather fancy cane, which Arthur quickly surmised was a swordstick, a blade hidden inside of a decorative walking cane.

"I saw what that fellow did to you." The man spoke in a hoarse voice as he got closer.

"Really?" Arthur was suspicious, "because I ran all the way here from a far distance."

"I know," The man responded, "And I followed in my coach."

Arthur followed the man's gesture to a red trimmed coach with two thoroughbred, brown horses attached to it.

"Come," said the man, tapping his square-toed shoes, "we must report this incident at once."

Arthur paused not sure if he should join the man. Why on earth would such a wealthy person be interested in helping him? Arthur wasn't a poor man, but he wasn't rich either. He was part of the growing middle class whose grandparents and great-grandparents had worked tirelessly to create a small fortune from building their trade shops. Arthur's father was a lawyer who was university educated, but after upsetting the general attorney had been sent away to the countryside. Arthur had chosen to remain in London and finish his own schooling at Oxford, where he wished to also dabble in law.

The gentleman, in his late forties or perhaps early fifties, crossed his arms looking rather vexed, "Well? What say you boy? Are you coming or not?"

Arthur snapped out of his daze, "Oh, yes sir."

Arthur returned to the main street where the carriage was waiting at the edge of the alleyway they were in. He got in and introduced himself.

"Arthur Kirkland, is it? My name is John Gonson, Sir John Gonson."

Arthur's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. The Mr. Gonson! The Justice of the Peace and Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for the City of Westminster! Arthur was both freighted and honoured all at once.

"I take it by your reaction you've heard of me."

"Yes sir, I believe all of London, if not England, has."

Gonson laughed, "All the better. Then perhaps our message will finally get across this wretched city."

"Message?" Arthur was intrigued.

"The message of the Society for Reformation of Manners. Are you familiar with us?"

"To be honest no, but I have heard things."

"Such as?"

Arthur fidgeted and tried to keep himself from sweating. All that he had heard of the society was that they forced their beliefs of a perfect society on the poor and twisted words and ideas to put away those who opposed them. They were responsible for trying to destroy the selling of gin, believing it to be the cause of vice, and brutally attacked anyone thought to be involved in lewd activities.

"Such as…your campaign against drunkenness and debauchery, sir."

It was then that Arthur remembered he was still carrying two bottles of gin concealed in his coat. He put on a strong face, concerned about what could happen to him if he were caught with them.

Gonson seemed to have read his mind, "I already saw the gin, boy. I saw it when the man took off with your bread."

Arthur tried to stumble out a half-assed excuse about not being a heavy drinker but only occasionally enjoying a glass when he was cut off, "I've seen you around the Old Bailey."

It was true; Arthur did frequent the Old Bailey. He was very interested in the trials and how barristers would manipulate the law on behalf of their clients. The clients were usually the prosecutors as most refused to defend the accused. This had always unsettled Arthur who couldn't help but feel that innocent souls were being sent to the gallows, pillars, or transported away for simply catching the eye of the wrong person. He intended to do something about it one day. His biggest foe however had always been his lack of confidence. As much as he tried he always got sucked into doing whatever society demanded.

"Well, here we are." Gonson leaned over to get out of the carriage.

Arthur followed and stared at the enormous mansion before him. They were not at the magistrate's as Gonson had promised, but rather his personal estate. "Um… Mr…Mr. Gonson, sir."

"I know you were expecting the magistrate's, son." Gonson turned and stared into Arthur's emerald eyes, "But I have something better in mind. You'll catch your criminal…but you'll get a whole lot more than that."

Next time Francis shows up! = D