**kudos and a big thank-you to farfromhome who sent me her idea of Richard's thoughts about a certain character in a certain series that needs no introduction… unless you really don't know I'm talking about 'Bridgerton'*
Part 2 of 2
Sometime a bit (well, a lot) later
He swims back up to consciousness and passes a hand over his eyes. Goodness, it's almost dark! Where does the time go? There is a faint murmur at his side and he smiles. Oh, yeah, THAT'S where all the time goes! He rolls onto his side and spoons her, his memory gliding back to the night of the hurricane and he is almost asleep again (and dreaming a VERY different outcome to that night) when a firm feminine fanny nudge jostles him awake.
He groans and pulls back from the questing bottom, "You have got to be kidding me! Stop it, I'm still recuperating."
She rolls over to face him, smiling sleepily, "What? No more nudgies? Not even a little one?"
He catches her roving hand and sweeps it up for a chaste kiss, "Not even a little one. I'm played out AND I'm starved! What shall we have for supper?"
With a long-suffering sigh, she sits up, brushes hair out of her eyes, and pronounces, "Steak! I need red meat! With potatoes. AND chocolate cake!"
"Right-o," he mutters, sliding to the edge of the bed and back into his clothes, "I'll do the steak, you do the potatoes." He pauses in standing up, "Um, what about the cake?"
She peers up at him complacently, "Never you mind. I don't want you to find my hiding-place. That cake is MINE… but I'll share for nudgies."
He sighs in resignation and holds out a hand. "Fine, you win, as usual, but cake first THEN nudgies."
She is magnanimous in triumph as she dons her dress and they descend to make supper. A bit later, out on their shaded terrace, she turns to him, "Um, how is your work going? Do you have time to spare?"
He is resting comfortably, rubbing his stomach, full of good steak and better intentions, "Time to spare? I'm done! The rest of my evening is wide open for…"
She darts forward, grabs his hand, "Good! I need you to watch something and tell me what the heck is going on!" At his inquisitive look, she shakes her head, "No, nothing bad, something from my TV show." At his snort, she nods most firmly, "Oh, yes! You need to watch it and put that big…" He flinches and she laughs, "… that big BRAIN of yours to work!" The she laughs again and pinches his cheek, "You are just TOO easy!" He smiles trustingly so she can't help but add, "Once I broke you in, that is." She stands, takes his hand, "C'mon, you. I'll call up the scenes that puzzle me and you can detect."
And so that is what they do. For the next hour, she fast-forwards through pivotal scenes and he watches his doppelgänger go through the motions. When the final credits start to roll, she turns to him with an expectant air, "There! So, what do you think? Is he dead or not? Is he on the run or not? Will he come back to retake his place as Lord F or not? Where's the money?"
Richard muses, straining his wife's patience to the breaking point. Just as she opens her mouth to chide him, he sits up and begins to pontificate in that professor voice that amuses her so much, "As you know, I read history at Cambridge so I know that scandal sheets were three a penny back then. A lot of print shops were unlicensed despite the June 1643 'Ordinance for the Regulating of Printing' that tried to crack down on the 'many false, forged, scandalous, seditious, libellous, and unlicensed Papers, Pamphlets, and Books to the great defamation of Religion and Government'."
She rolls a temperate eye and groans, "Oh, I just HAD to ask, didn't I?" At his snarky silence she sighs, "OK, go ahead, I know you're dying to tell me. What about this Ordinance?"
He huffs, "It didn't work, too many entrepreneurs and back-alley fly-by-nights. Also, the scandal sheets were very popular. The authorities had to walk a fine line because 'The Ton' lived and died between issues." He turns to her now, his mind picking up speed, "Hang on! To have the Bow Street Runners try to track down Lady Whistledown makes no sense unless someone very high up had a more serious reason. Trying to stop the gossip sheet must have been a cover." He laces his hands over a knee and sits back, "But a cover for what? Hmmm."
After a minute, she goes to the kitchen. By the time she returns with the tea tray, he is nodding. She sits, pours, and puts a cup into his hand as he rouses, "Um, I wonder if it had anything to do with 'bad money'? Counterfeiting was rife back then and the gold in the banks was insufficient to cover even a modest run. Do you know, it's believed Napoleon dumped counterfeit money into England from 1805-1812 in preparation for his impossible invasion plans? No? Well, he did it to Austria and Russia so why not England, hmm?"
"Yes, dear," she intones, watching him think (almost her favourite pastime with him) (almost).
His eyes gleam as he sits up alertly, "Could that be it? The hunt for the counterfeiter was hidden behind the hunt for Lady W? But who could have tipped the Runners off? Who has been chasing money for all eight tedious episodes of this series?"
At her blank look, he snaps his fingers, "Ah! I know who! It's him! That pudgy little ponce with the silly hair, Lord F! No one would guess he's a Treasury man! He's ex-Navy and those types are honour-bound for King and Country! The authorities report finding his body but there is no actual proof he's really dead, is there?"
Camille takes the cooling cup of ignored tea back out of his hand, sighs, and pulls him to his feet. He comes willingly, still theorizing.
"He scarpered, that's what! He got sidetracked momentarily by those two thugs but he probably went out the discreet back door of that brothel and straight to Bow Street to report his findings. Did he also report those two goons to his handler? Were they part of the scheme? Well! If so then…"
Camille keeps nodding as she leads him up the stairs.
Now he's getting into it, "OR! Did he promise to give all the money back then rush home to check his stash, hoping he isn't going to be banged up if he's got bad notes on him? Did he then rush off to get the bad notes off that boxer fellow? Is he going to the nearest gambling den to try to pawn off the bad notes for good ones? What is he up to?"
She closes the bedroom door behind him and sits him down on the side of the bed. As she lays him back, he's still following the clues.
"And if not then he's gone into hiding, leaving his family, maybe running off to sea again. Once a sailor, always a…"
She straddles him, leans down, cups his chin, "Richard!"
He blinks, looks up at her like he's just realized they aren't in the TV room anymore, "What?"
"Time to hush. TV time is over. Now it's OUR time."
He bites his lip, "Oh. Um. Right. So soon?"
She pulls her dress off over her head, mussing up hair that will be so much more mussed real soon now. She leers down at him, "Yes, my sweet, and if there's one thing I know it's you're the real deal, not an actor and certainly not counterfeit! You've got the genuine goods and I need 'em."
As she lowers herself for the preliminary kiss, he murmurs, "Right here? Right now?"
She presses her lips to his and murmurs back, "Yes, ma colombe, my dove, here and now where it's prime time ALL the time. The Paradise Channel 24/7. My little slice of green-eyed heaven."
His arms go around her and he rumbles happily, "Good to know. And, Camille?"
She has to interrupt a long-overdue rapturous investigation of male contours, "Oh, what now?"
He grins, "I'm very glad this is a round-the-clock channel. I'll never complain again."
"Promise?"
"Promise. Well, until the next set of reports. I'll lock myself into a cupboard then."
As she stoops to conquer, she laughs, "Too bad for you that I learned how to pick locks then, innit?"
Epilogue
That night, Richard Poole has a dream…
Stay tuned…