Part 2 of 8
He floats in a grey world of gentle waves for a long time before the light begins to brighten and when he opens his eyes he is standing on a street surrounded by strolling couples and the clop of horse hooves. He blinks, steps quickly to put his back to a nearby tree, and stares out onto a streetscape right out of a movie set. In fact, as he studies his immediate area, he thinks he recognizes the movie!
He glances down at himself and sighs with resignation. He looks like he's on his way to a costume ball… a REGENCY costume ball. Ah, god, I'm dreaming, he thinks, blast Camille and her pre-occupation with that actor. I fell asleep puzzling over the situation with Lord F and now I'm dreaming it! He snorts wryly. Still, it's interesting to time-travel over 200 years into the past, even if it's all in my head.
Feeling like he's on holiday, he steps out smartly and continues his promenade here on The Royal Crescent, nodding to people who nod, smiling to people who smile, and taking it all in with a historian's fervor. Little has changed, he thinks, except I think I prefer these lush gardens and ancient trees. The horses are beautiful but the heaps of manure in the streets aren't. He wrinkles his nose then chuckles. How odd, despite the mess it smells better than modern English traffic. Must take care where I step.
He is eyeing the sumptuous clothes and ridiculous hair of all the passers-by when a voice calls out nearby. It is several seconds and a second hail before Richard realizes it is Lord F who is being addressed. Turning warily, he sees a tall solemn gentleman approaching respectfully. Who's this, I wonder? Am I to fake a conversation now? The man holds out a hand and speaks before Richard has a chance to respond.
Several minutes later, Richard watches the man stride away, their conversation whirling in his head as he frowns. Barclay Holmes, Junior Assistant to the Minister of the Interior? I don't think so! That was an MI6 operative if ever I saw one except MI6 doesn't exist until July 1909 so perhaps this Holmes works for Foreign Minister Viscount Casterleagh instead? Richard resumes his stroll except now his hands are clasped behind his back and he isn't watching the crowds, he's watching his own booted feet clip beneath him as his brain kicks into overdrive.
So, we went to school together, did we? His Ministry is trying to break up a gambling ring and he needs my help, does he? He wants to set me up as a hopelessly inept gambler using Ministry funds in order to infiltrate certain gambling establishments, fling money to the four winds for a month or so, then score a huge surprise win and hand over my winnings as evidence in a court case? Hmm, that's a thinly veiled tissue of lies if ever I heard one… and I've heard plenty!
He shakes his head and turns down a shaded side-street where it's quieter and a man can think. Let's see now, they want me to bring them a huge pile of cash… why? I'm sure I'm not the only 'old school chum' that is being recruited so why does the Foreign Minister want all that money, hmm? His previous thoughts about counterfeit money-plates and Napoleon's invasion plans swim back up and now he ponders it anew.
He turns a corner, still thinking. He adds his idea about the counterfeit money to the odd business in the show about the hunt for Lady Whistledown's printer… and the clues begin to coalesce. What if? His brain lights up as it does when he is hot on the trail of a villain. What if… all the recruited gamblers are orchestrated to win 'big' on the same day? What if… whoever has the counterfeit plates is forced to use them to print off enough money to cover the bets? What if… these huge wodges of cash are used to locate the area where the fake money was made? And what if… tracking down Lady Whistledown's scandal sheet is just a cover to raid all the printers in that area where the counterfeits come from?
With a start, he realizes he's standing in front of a familiar looking manor where a shrill voice issues stridently. Richard stands out on the walkway, staring up at the impressive edifice and hopes like hell he isn't expected to fake a conversation with Lady F next! That would turn this dream into a nightmare!
Instead, the world begins to gray out. He huffs a relieved grunt and floats once more in welcome peace between thoughts until vague shapes begin to coalesce around him. He blinks to clear his vision but it does no good because everything is dim and shadowed for a reason. He's standing in a heavily shuttered room. Rich (if worn) velvet draperies enshroud everything in darkened hush. A single candle flickers at an ornate bed-side table barely illuminating what appears to be an antique display of faux sumptuousness.
He nods. Ah! Of course. I'm still dreaming about that blasted TV show, my stupid brain is still thinking about it, and now here I am, trapped in… He peers about, suddenly unsure. Where exactly AM I anyway? This doesn't look like any of the sets from the show. If I didn't know any better I'd almost think…
… and THAT is when something rustles in the bed and a dark willowy shape rises up and a dulcet heavily accented very feminine voice calls out softly, "Ar-chee? Is that my Ar-chee?"
END – part 2