By evening, all of London was in the know.
Not the explicit details of the viscount's visit to Starling House – explained away as an entreaty for the young duke to take his seat in Parliament – but of those concerning the slew of bodies left to rot in Hyde Park on May the Sixteenth.
After leaving Starling House at the first opportunity he had, Oliver had headed straight for St James' Street to open his gaming hell two hours early. All members were permitted play any game with no limits on their credit during the additional opening hours, his way of compensating for Verdant's premature closing the night before. The sanctity of the Sabbath was no preclusion to the ton's predilection for pleasure, though amidst roister and revel floated the grisly details of the Hyde Park murders, a fascinating topic not for the faint at heart.
Bow Street had discovered a ninth body at suppertime, half-submerged in a bush lining the edges of the Serpentine. Like all the others it was pierced by a single arrow to the breast, though various other injuries too inflicted by arrowheads were found marking its bloated flesh. It was said that the runners thought the murders merely the product of madness, until a subsequent inquest revealed that each corpse bore three messages wrapped in a sheep's bladder inserted into the corpse's crudely sewn-up gut.
The first: Vengeance is mine; I will repay.
The second: The sins of the father will be visited upon the son.
And the last: I say not unto thee, until seven times: but, until seventy times seven.
The second of those had been hissed into his ear in the seconds following his stabbing at the Theatre Royal, and this produced within him a renewed urgency to find the man known as Stellmoor. Moreover, Oliver could not shake off the feeling that the present murders had to do with his father, inasmuch as it was evident that they were linked to him as well. The best way to flush out information in London was to listen carefully to idle talk, and so he walked amongst the dissipation in the card rooms of Verdant now, eavesdropping on what snippets of conversations he could.
A woman dressed in a deep purple gown of satin spotted him, and she rose from one of the tables to approach his side, a coquettish smile playing about her lips and the exotic tilt of her eyes.
"I hear you've taken in Donna's daughter," said McKenna Hall, proprietress and madam of the Fields of Fancy, the establishment partnered with Verdant for each evening's entertainments. The present evening's success went beyond her allowing her girls to provide sparkling conversation and the pleasure of their company – she had loaned her cook as well.
"Miss Smoak is my secretary," repeated Oliver, for perhaps the umpteenth time that evening, given how passing members had seen fit to pelt him with incessant questions about his decision to hire a woman, and of such a background at that, for the position. "Nothing more, nothing less."
The madam laughed, her tortoiseshell fan raised to cover her mouth. "Most definitely, your grace. I've met the girl before, while her mother was still in my line of business, and when I was just starting out. Never have I met a more unlikely candidate for a man's kept woman than in the person of Felicity Smoak. Rest assured that I will be confirming as such that she is no Cyprian in your home."
He was prompted by some impulse to argue, but could think of nothing other than to reiterate his previous words, or to demand why Felicity's obvious desirability prevented anyone from denying himself the honour of having her devotion. Perhaps it was for the better, for it did Felicity's reputation no credit for the Duke of Starling to overreact to any aspersions cast upon her virtue.
"Have any of your girls ever met a man known as 'Stellmoor'?" he asked instead.
McKenna folded her fan and rested it on her left cheek. "You know I never kiss and tell, your grace."
"For old time's sake, McKenna," urged Oliver, giving her the lopsided smile she had so favoured when he first met her six years ago and he was a green boy about to keep his first mistress.
"Very well," she conceded. "On account of our history, I'll ask the demi-monde."
"I would have thought it was on account of the jewels."
She touched a hand to the amethysts that adorned the graceful column of her neck, his parting gift to her after all was said and finished between them in an amicable last meeting as patron and courtesan. "They were most persuasive in my decision-making process."
Having accomplished his goal in seeking her out, Oliver left the room by way of a private flight of stairs that led up to the owner's suite above. As he pressed his hand to the bannister, the layer of dust that had gathered on its smooth surface clung to his palm, and he made a mental note to find some time to clean the secret tunnels in his gaming hell sometime that week.
Diggle was waiting in the observation room, seated in the new armchair that Oliver had ordered be placed there by the building's architects. His chin rested in his palm, and his eyes were trained on the activity below, the other hand occasionally picking up a quill that was to his side to scribble some notes down in an open file.
"I've put Roy on investigating the Hyde Park murders," said Oliver, crossing the room to join him. "I would prefer you look for information on my father's service for the Crown; I can't see Anatoli until all suspicions are off my person."
Diggle turned to look at him, straightening in his seat to a more upright position. Oliver could see that the man was hesitant from the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips before he said, "I need to tell you that I made contact with the War Office on Saturday. They know you're the Arrow, Oliver."
Oliver had been in the midst of removing the stifling layer of his coat, and he froze now, the garment hanging loosely in his hands. "And where have you chosen to place your loyalties?"
"I only have to make a report when your actions threaten Britain's interests. In fact they ordered me back to Starling House this afternoon only to confirm that you weren't responsible for the Hyde Park murders."
Placing his coat on the arm of his chair, Oliver tugged at the knot around his neck. "I've killed before."
"As have I. I would like to think I know the difference between a man who kills in defense and a man who kills for sport. You are not the latter, Oliver, not when you fall into a contemplative mood each time you take a life."
Oliver acknowledged his support with a single nod, stripping off his waistcoat so that he stood only in his shirtsleeves and breeches. It was a strange thing to be idle at present, but he had put someone on every single live lead he had, and in light of his extreme reluctance to return to Starling House the only thing left to do was to wait for time to pass.
He strode over to the sideboard, and retrieved the bottle of vodka that Anatoli had sent to him when he first sought out Felicity's identity. Pouring out two glasses, he handed one of them to Diggle, who accepted it.
"Prochnost," said Oliver, raising his glass.
"I've really no idea why you two can't just speak English," replied the other man, too raising his glass.
Oliver did not quite understand the reference but tipped the contents of his glass down his throat, feeling the burn of the alcohol sweep through his body. He sat next to Diggle, who too finished his drink and placed the glass on the ground, to resume his watch on the activity below through the verdurous crystal Oliver had insisted be installed.
"Roy tells me that the horse you rode in on is new."
Oliver vaguely recalled the beast and its glossy black flank. "Indeed?"
"He's named Devil, and sired from the famous Ducati that won the Ascot twice. Roy says he was a birthday present sent by Lord Thomas Merlyn."
Oliver bit back a sigh. He had a conversation with Tommy that was long overdue, one that he did not wish to have in the slightest. The last time they had spoken was in Bristol, where not even the most perfunctory of greetings had been exchanged, unless one counted the well-deserved charge of being a lying bastard his best friend had leveled at him.
There was also Laurel to contend with. Oliver did not look forward to his dances with her for tomorrow's soirée, those planned minutes of prolonged contact where he would have to look into her green eyes with the knowledge that she was fully cognisant of his guilt. At last she was aware that he was guilty of lying, of killing and of harbouring a vicious monster within him that was capable of untold violence, which he had perpetrated right before her eyes.
After all that was said and done between them, it was still a touch too close to his recurring nightmares wherein she pointed an accusing finger at him. The irreparability of their relationship was a given, and he should have felt empty and devoid of hope, but instead it was a bone-weariness that suffused his mind.
There was too much between them to return to a more innocent time, only the darkness and exhaustion endowed by experience.
Oliver finally let out the breath he had been suppressing, turning his attention to the glint of his signet ring. "We'll need to return to Starling House tonight."
"I thought you moved into the suite here?"
"I promised my mother I'd move back when negotiating for Felicity's living arrangements."
Diggle stood up, understanding in his dark gaze. "So what is her status in the household?"
"Equivalent to that of a governess. Mother's threatened to exclude her from formal dinners but I'll chip away at that position when we do indeed need to take dinner with guests."
As Oliver rose to his feet, putting his coat and waistcoat back on, he heard Diggle mutter, "Thanks for the invitation."
Oliver stopped and looked his partner in the eye, his next words entirely sincere. "I don't believe in strictures of the world I was born in, not after what I've been through. Believe me when I say that there is no other man I would have eat by my side as my equal, John."
The man gave him a small smile, extending a hand to him as one would an equal. "And there is no other living man that I would consider more of a brother."
Perhaps there was some good in the life he was leading now, after all. That was at the forefront of Oliver's mind as he crossed the threshold into the entrance hall of Starling House by himself, Diggle having entered the house through the servants' door at the back. He had lost himself, his father, his ability to simply return to his previous life, but he was not alone, inasmuch as he still drowned in his misery. For the past months his only consistent wish was that the cup he had been given be passed from him; the impossibility of that wish was sufficient grounds for him to now be resigned to living with the weight of his past.
A sliver of light creeping across the tiled floor caught his attention and he followed its path in search of its source. As he threw open the library door, he made out Felicity's form curled up in a large armchair before the dying embers of the fire.
She did not notice his entrance, and so for the first time since he met her, he allowed himself to drink her in.
The dim glow of the cinders produced a peachy tint on the milky hues of her skin. Felicity wore yet another of his nightshirts, her garments only scheduled to arrive the next day, and the fabric overwhelmed her person, pooling about her limbs much in the manner he had noticed when he awoke that morning to find her by his side. Her golden hair was secured loosely in a braid resting on her shoulder, and she appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in collection of papers, a simper of amusement occasionally appearing across her features.
She was part of the reason why he had been keen to avoid Starling House. It had not escaped him that attraction, potent and perilous, simmered between them each time they but entered each other's presence, and when he opened his eyes that morning he felt it was necessary to be honest with himself.
Felicity Smoak was forbidden. No matter how irresistible he found her form or her mind, there would no longer be flirting or teasing, no suggestions of something more than friendship between them. He had been most tempted ever since he met her in Slade's house, but following their night together he knew that it could not pass.
More than anyone else he had met in his life did Felicity Smoak radiate an unadulterated goodness and decency, unsullied by the circumstances which she was plunged into. He had seen as much when she bargained for her mother's life and wellbeing over her own, when she had approached him in the fit of his worst nightmares, and when she had willingly given up all claims of her own respectability as proof of his innocence.
He needed her to avenge his father, but exigencies aside, there was no doubt that he would taint her with all the darkness within him were he to even touch her.
She stirred, the orange light shifting across her lovely features as she tilted her head towards the doorway. A wide smile broke out on her face as her eyes lit with recognition.
"Oliver! Welcome home," she said, making to rise, as decorum required of her.
"There's no need to get up," said Oliver, striding over to where she sat. "What were you reading?"
She thrust the papers under a fold of the nightdress she was wearing, which was not inherently difficult, given the amount of silk draping over her frame. "Nothing in particular."
They held each other's gaze for a while, neither of them willing to give in with respect to his inquiry, while she clamped her papers securely against her lap. Finally Oliver narrowed his eyes and curled a hand around the seat of her chair's wooden frame.
"What are you – " she began to yelp in alarm, throwing out a hand towards his forearm to restrain him, but he had already dragged the chair and her in it over to the other armchair positioned before the fireplace, falling into it to put them at the same eye level as he did so.
Without thinking, he reached his other hand towards where she had sought to conceal the papers, and they both froze as he felt the warmth of her thigh through the silk she wore with his fingertips.
Oliver withdrew his fingers immediately, but his eyes were still locked onto hers, neither of them quite able to speak. His heart was pounding as if he had ridden hard at length before he saw her, its loud sound drowning any opportunity for rational thought in his mind, although all that had transpired before this was a gentle trot back to Grovesnor Square and Roy's telling him that the coroner who had dealt with the Hyde Park bodies had been identified.
A flush was appearing on her cheeks, and he was painfully aware of the sweet honeysuckle scent she emitted, as well as the fact that the measurements of the neck opening on his nightshirt meant that he could see the beginnings of her left breast and the deep shadow next to its swell.
Oliver tried to focus his mind on her spectacles, but at present he found that there was something unbearably erotic about them as well, in the way they kissed the bridge of her nose and framed the cloudless sky her eyes were. He could not bring himself to move, and yet he needed to adjust his seat, so that she would not notice the effect she had on him. He prayed that he had ordered conservative bed jackets and bed shifts when he had put in the request for her wardrobe.
"…scandal sheets," she finally choked out, offering the papers to him in surrender. "My mother's associate sent me some old scandal sheets when she heard that I was working here."
He took them from her and recognised their subject matter immediately. "They're not all true," he said, thumbing through a rather thorough account of all his appearances as a young and debonair rake in London.
"Some are rather accurate – this one, for instance." She referred to a more recent sheet, which concerned Tommy's and his appearance at a respectable event, in the words of the report, 'almost a rarer occasion than the joint appearance of Prinny and his wife in public'. The event in question was a musicale put on by the eldest Lance sister, and Laurel had been alluded to with the sobriquet she had held for most of her first Season: 'Gorgeous Laurel'.
"I've read that one before, before I met you, and when I saw Miss Lance this afternoon, I thought the epithet indeed rang true."
"Laurel was born to be admired," acknowledged Oliver. "But I rather think that it's in surpassing what is dictated by the circumstances of our birth that we truly begin to be."
That sentiment applied to the both of them, to her triumph and to his despair.
The embers died and what little illumination they had provided ebbed away, he only glimpsed the rueful smile she gave in response before she said quietly, "It's late now. I should return to my room."
He insisted on walking her up the stairs to the second floor where the room designated for the governess was, next to the empty nursery Moira allowed their butler and housekeeper to use as a servant's parlour of sorts, over and above the servants' hall in the basement where staff ate. She turned the knob and then paused, her head raised to look straight ahead at the door.
"I know what the ton will say about me and my being here," Felicity said, breaking the contemplative silence that had fallen over their ascent to the second floor. "I am most grateful for your generosity in ensuring that I enjoy a status and position that another man would never have extended to someone of my ilk."
Words of protest were swelling up in his throat, ones to assure her that she had less than what she deserved, particularly given that he would not have her eat with the servants even though Moira sought to exclude her from their table, which placed her in a limbo of rank and status.
"Truth be told, I expected the cover story to be my being your mistress, particularly after the most impetuous statement I made in your parlour this afternoon. I know you will be defending our cover story to your fellow peers and I want you to be assured that I stand entirely with you in my expectations regarding this arrangement."
He had been staring at the way she held her shoulders tensely throughout her speech, her back to him as she hovered at the threshold of the simply-furnished room she had been given. Felicity turned to face him now, her earnestness and conviction underscoring the gravity of her tone.
"I am not a woman given to flights of fancy, but when I was in the first blush of youth, I…became acquainted with a gentleman whom I thought would marry me despite my birth. Suffice to say he persuaded me to see the error of my judgment, and I will not make the same mistake in respect of the relationship between us."
Oliver wanted to kill this man of whom she spoke, who had shattered her dreams and engendered the cynical edge to her words now. Her eyes had been downcast when she alluded to her past but then Felicity's expression softened somewhat, and she raised her gaze to meet his again.
"I will be your employee, your helpmate and your ally, and because I have vowed to never become a man's mistress, it does not matter what story we eventually need to tell the ton. I will not misunderstand my station and what it entails."
His mind was in a whirl; he did not hear if she bade him good night. The door closed behind her, leaving Oliver to wonder why his surrender to the irreversibility of his circumstances had suddenly met with bitter pricks of unhappiness.
It was with great reluctance that Tommy shuffled into Merlyn House, tendrils of fog still clinging to his coat. The rays of dawn were about to make their entrance; he had forced himself to stay up and out for the last few hours, forcing a chuckle as opposed at every ribald joke made by the fast younger set he had joined for the night's activities.
Perhaps he was just too old to carouse till dawn, downing alcohol of varying levels of quality and hopping from vice to vice as if the whole endeavour was worth the effort. Or perhaps he could no longer see any meaning in pretending his merriment in life.
There was talk about the Hyde Park murders all through the evening. A further subject of interest was the person that Oliver had reportedly hired. It distressed Tommy to hear the news of Oliver's secretary circulating; the topic was bound to find its way to Laurel's ear, and she had never before taken news of Oliver's women well.
There was one idiot who had dared ask Tommy about the appearance of runners at Starling House at midday, a Carter Bowen from his Eton days. Tommy had always remembered Bowen as a most pompous ass who believed that being nephew to a duke and heir presumptive to said dukedom elevated him even above the other boys in their house – barring Oliver, of course.
"My uncle says that there's more than what has been said about the visit from Bow Street – he mentioned that the duke has never been involved with such operations."
Tommy gave the man a tight-lipped smile and wondered why he had even fallen into his company that night to begin with.
"The Duke of Starling was known for his archery all through school, and to be honest, I think everyone can agree that there's been something almost savage about the man ever since he returned to London. Wouldn't you agree that the duke may have been the subject of investigation?"
It was slightly more direct than insinuation, that favoured weapon of the beau monde. Tommy gave a chuckle and looked intently at the other man, asking, "Mr Bowen, are you suggesting that the duke is a killer responsible for the Hyde Park murders?"
Carter Bowen was not quite that plucky, nor devoid of sense. "Not at all, Lord Thomas."
"Good. That would have been a most grave insult upon his grace's honour indeed, and I would have hated to ruin the evening by calling someone out."
Bowen had laughed nervously. "No one could doubt the loyalty of the Merry Merlyn to his friend…"
Tommy ran a hand through his hair now, his heart heavy. There was no question of being disloyal to Oliver in public but even though he intuited that Oliver was not responsible for the recent spate of deaths, the carnage from Bristol nevertheless weighed his judgment the other way.
He had been entirely shocked when he saw the bodies in that narrow alleyway, his disgust at the gore only waylaid by the overwhelming relief he felt from the fact of Laurel's safety. He had not wanted to dwell upon that moment but the talk surrounding the Hyde Park murders forced him to relive the sight of gaping wounds and the acrid smell of blood in the air.
All in all Tommy recognised that Oliver had acted on impulse to effect Laurel's safety. He could be grateful that she was not violated, that despite the lies that Oliver had told everyone regarding his five years away, that whatever the man he had become was, that man was able to save Laurel.
Whereas Tommy did not have it in him to knowingly kill anyone pre-emptively, not even for Laurel's sake. It was too ingrained in him to consider such actions wrong, and therefore entirely immaterial that had the offer come, he would gladly volunteer to take on any and all of the hurts that fate decreed she had to suffer in her lifetime.
He made a small smile at the thought of Laurel. What folly he had nearly embarked on this afternoon, by thinking to propose! He acknowledged he owed her the truth about his heart, that his secrecy was now only prolonged by his pride and not her sake, but he was also convinced of the destructive impact of his telling her he loved her.
Laurel had always loved Oliver. Laurel hated prevarication. So Laurel was not likely to take kindly to the news that Tommy had loved her this whole while, and Tommy was going to finally learn how fragile his relationship with her really was.
There was the possibility Laurel did not yet love this Oliver, he pointed out to himself though he did not much believe it, as he passed his father's study on the first floor. The buzz of voices engaged in conversation could be heard through its mahogany door, and Tommy did not give much thought to the snatches he could hear – his father had always held meetings at odd hours on account of his dealings with the East India Company and the tight schedules governing the passage of trading ships into the Pool of London down at Billingsgate.
He ignored the muffled sound of "…has become aware of our involvement in…" and nearly reached his room when his father's disapproving tones resounded from behind him.
"What have you done, Thomas?"
The use of his first name in full meant that it was a particular egregious breach of which his father spoke, but apart from that Tommy had no clue as to the subject of his father's ire.
"Perhaps you'd prefer to enlighten me on how I have disappointed you again."
Malcolm did not find that remark amusing, his nostrils flaring in anger. "Jokes again. No gravity for the Merry Merlyn, or whatever the imbecilic moniker you acquired at Oxford was. Very well, Tommy, explain how is it you have managed to lose the one property that I bequeathed to your management."
His family solicitor was most treacherous, not to mention short-sighted in preferring the interests of the older earl to that of the future earl. Tommy gave his father a wide loopy grin that he was sure would annoy him. "I've not lost it, father. I've merely put it to better use."
"Is that what you call the asinine scheme you have hatched with Viscount Lance's daughter? I said to resuscitate its operations after closing it down temporarily, not convert it into some parish poorhouse promising board and lodging to just any street urchin who has a sob story to tell!"
Whenever the earl became angry, he stood stiffly, his head slightly jutting forward with every denigration he pronounced. Tommy tried very hard not to mimic his father in jest, a habit from his younger days, as he replied measuredly, "There are plans for a school and a basic clinic. I further requested that the orphanage be named in honour of mother, since I believe that she would have approved of the cause."
Malcolm returned his words with the contemptuous sneer Tommy was well familiar with. "Of course your mother would have approved. I forget sometimes how much of Rebecca's son you are. Have you forgotten how she was murdered, during the Terror in ninety-three?"
How could he, when the tale emerged each time father and son had a disagreement?
"She insisted on letting the riffraff into our home, even though I said it was too dangerous – some piffle about them only wishing to feed the hungry mouths in their home. And so she opened our doors, the bread she prepared readied in a room behind her, waiting for grubby hands to only reach for them.
"The sans-culottes took one look at the string of pearls around her neck and shot her for them. I watched them kill my wife, because I was too weak to protect her, and because she was weak to their demands. And now you dare tell me you're making the same mistake as she did in your life – being damnably susceptible to the same sort of weakness she was!"
Tommy was too tired to properly argue with the father whohad refused to allow him to return from school during summer, who had dismissed his nanny on the mere pretext that he was too attached to her, and who had shot his dog when he was fourteen on the basis that a man of his ilk should not be keeping a three-legged animal.
"Father, I would prefer to continue this conversation at breakfast," he said, making plans right there and then not to turn up for breakfast.
The earl made a sound of exasperation. "Why do you always do this, Tommy? Why do you always make me the unreasonable one? Do you think it was easy for me to know that you grew up without a mother because of my work? All I've done is to try and cultivate the softness out of you – the same softness that took your mother from us, so that you never have to watch your wife be hurt before your eyes. And yet the only rewards for all my effort are your perennial absences from home, rumours about whatever new stupid thing you have done, and now this! Are you trying to punish me? Why can't you just be sensible for once, instead of engaging in this sort of tomfoolery clearly designed to vex me?"
Tommy shook his head, bereft of words. In some perverse sense his father was right; he had nearly had to witness Laurel in peril when they were in Bristol. He opened his mouth to speak, but his father continued.
"I've decided to be less indulgent as a parent. As of tomorrow I am cutting off your allowance, until you show some remorse and maturity."
"Father," Tommy began with alarm. The announcement jeopardised his plans to build the orphanage for Laurel; one could not pay builders and the like without any funds, and his status as the son of a living peer both precluded him from working to earn capital and from drawing directly from the earldom's resources.
"Do not try to charm your way out of the situation. I'm not budging on my decision until I hear you have sobered up somewhat."
"Father, a gentleman cannot engage in trade. Think of what shame it would bring to the Merlyn name."
Malcolm Merlyn let out a snort of laughter. "Well then, I hope the friends you cultivated from gaming and whoring prove loyal when you can no longer afford to buy them drinks."
Satisfied with his gains, Malcolm returned to his associates, who were waiting patiently for him. With the closing of his father's study door Tommy inhaled deeply, his hand reaching into his pocket for the wood of his toy horse instinctively. He did not know what he was to do, come tomorrow's dawn.
The provenance of the messages in the Hyde Park murders, albeit heavily subverted, are as follows: Deuteronomy 32:35, (some incarnation of numerous verses), Matthew 18:22. Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, is the current Royal Opera House, of course. I was actually going to exclude McKenna Hall from my adaptation, but then I decided that a madam of mysterious origins was entirely up her alley, what with her wild past and all. We'll take it that she's a nice madam who does not stand for cruelty to her girls, and that the Fields of Fancy were where courtesans under her wing would entertain prior to having a regular patron. The name for the establishment comes from the fact that Las Vegas can be translated to mean the meadows, and Donna's supposed to be a cocktail waitress from Vegas, so now she's a courtesan from the Fields.
Women were not supposed to show their teeth when they smiled - it was supposed to be vulgar. (Felicity's wide grins are meant to indicate how guileless she is.) The language of fans was not as developed in the Regency as they would be in the Victorian era but McKenna's resting of the fan on her left cheek would have meant 'No', at least according to my research. I hope you found the way I fit Oliver's mode of transportation into the story hilarious. I had a good laugh when I wrote it in.
Women weren't commonly secretaries until much later and it was my understanding that a secretary/accountant was something of a professional, much like a lawyer, or a young man of good birth learning the ropes from another. Felicity's position was thus very unclear and I would think even my characters would have been confused about where exactly to place her. As a governess she would have occupied the liminal area between being part of the family and being a servant; a lot of people have asked why Moira's being so mean to her and the reason is that any association on Thea's part with a illegitimate woman who has not been recognised by her father, and whose mother was a courtesan, would damage Thea's reputation. Diggle has the status of a servant and therefore would never have eaten with the family. The egalitarian tendencies Oliver displays in this chapter is once again a hark to his liberal roots in the source material, and it's a shout-out to people who've watched Belle starring Gugu Mbatha-Raw when references are made to Felicity's being too high to eat with servants but too low to eat with the family.
It was entirely intentional for Oliver to pull Felicity and the chair over with just one hand. You're welcome. Prinny hated Caroline of Brunswick, though it's certainly quite cheeky for the sheet to allude to that! I thought it was a little odd for Felicity to say 'Gorgeous Laurel' given that they didn't quite use first names as we do now so I sought to explain it. Shoutout to fellow Poldark fans with the 'born to be admired' line, though Felicity was most definitely not born to pull turnips. The gentleman she refers to is Cooper and the word 'gentleman' refers to rank rather than his behaviour.
Carter Bowen was the perfect son figure that Moira kept praising in Season One, that danced with Laurel to Tommy's chagrin, at the gala organised for Laurel by Tommy. As in 2012, he's still a pompous ass in 1812. Malcolm Merlyn is finally showing his credentials as dad of the year, and his decision isn't logical as it is borne out of his irrational feelings about Tommy's life. I thought it was entirely in character for Tommy to behave a bit like a rebellious teenager with his father (inspired by Julia Quinn's It's In His Kiss!) and I think Malcolm intends to wait for his son to beg him for the funds and then confer them on the basis of restrictive covenants. I know Rebecca Merlyn was shot for her purse but I don't think ladies carried as much in their reticules as on their person and so I thought she could borrow a page from Martha Wayne's book and wear pearls despite being a DC character who isn't bulletproof. She died during the Reign of Terror in France, which puts Tommy at a few years older than the age of 8 when it happened, which is the canon on the show. But as usual I've taken liberties where appropriate.
I'm really behind on real life responsibilities (even though I've been flirting with a fluffy Olicity oneshot when I was cheating on this story all week) and so I will only frustrate you with the knowledge that I have Flarrow planned for the next chapter and that it may take some time ;P