So, why introduce a character into the Bridgerton TV series that only got a passing mention in the books?

Unless you mean to do something pretty spectacular with him… And yet, nothing spectacular was done with Archibald Featherington for the whole of the first season. Think about it: we don't even know if he's actually dead. Rather a waste of your viewing time, you say? We agree.

What really lay behind those cool green eyes? What really happened in that brothel? Remember: there is no light without shadow, there is no music without counterpoint.

So, a couple of us decided to do something specTACular. Here follow all the missing scenes you never knew you wanted. Read on, gentle viewer.

Part 1 - Lord Featherington Goes For A Walk

Archibald Edward Malcolm Richard Belamey Featherington turns the page of his neatly ironed 'London Times' and sighs tiredly. Lord (and not me), another utterly boring and stultifying Sunday spent at home! If I have to listen to one more minute of matrimonial wittering, I shall run amok!

A quick scan of the page makes him sigh anew. Nothing, absolutely nothing, of interest or import or even salaciousness to report. This paper has become as unbearably boring as my home life. He folds the newspaper with a snap, temporarily shushing the feminine contingent within the room and giving his well-shaped ears a deserved rest.

But the silence doesn't last long. It never does. Gorblimey and Lord (again, not him) love a duck, it's never for long! Portia just looks blank then starts up again, "And what do you say to THAT, my Lord? What have you to say to your youngest daughter who dares to ask such an unladylike question?"

He groans. He hasn't been listening. He NEVER listens anymore. What is the point? His wife is obsessed with The Ton and nothing else matters... certainly not him! He gave up trying to have a rational conversation with her a long time ago.

He shakes his head. What did I ever see in her? Other than the obvious, I mean? Why didn't I take the time to sound her out, to test her mind? But, no, I threw myself at the first impressive redhead paraded before me like a breeding heifer in the sales ring and I've paid the price ever since. All she cares about is the title, the title but not the man, never the man, never me.

He sighs. Ah, callow Youth! Fleeting passions doth mock us all. If I could, I would tell my foolish younger self to stay on the 'Brunswick' and put out to sea again! To hell with accepting the title and settling down and starting my dynasty. He sighs again. My dynasty, hah! For that I need sons and…

He stops there. His lack of male progeny still stings after all these years. Even more so when he recalls the night his wife pronounced, after their third daughter's difficult birth, that she was done submitting to his monstrously filthy urges, to take a mistress, and never darken her bedroom door again. He had complied with cold consent, not really very surprised since her ardour had never been what you might call 'warm'. Besides, he knew many other men in the same situation, but the personal insult went deeper than he'd expected. However, over time, strangely enough, it hadn't bothered him as much as he thought it would, except for the lack of possible (and probable) male issue. That still rankled. She had robbed him of his sons.

Still, he'd gone seamlessly back to the habits he'd acquired in the Navy. His wife was content. He was content. Well, he might be content if only he didn't have to suffer through these interminable Sunday afternoons as his wife blithered and his dutiful daughters hung upon her every word!

His sea-green eyes flick across the room. Daughters, why was I fated with daughters, people that I have no part in rearing and that are as alien to me as darkest Africa? What's to become of them? Why did I leave their rearing to that henna-haired ninny? I should have taken a hand in their schooling… except it's not allowed as it is the mother's place to educate them. Consequently they are as brainless as she. Well, perhaps Penny a little less so… but still, how I wish I could talk to them. There's so much I could teach them… if only I were allowed… if only they were boys…

Just then the strident back-ground noise amps up another decibel or two, breaking in on his sorrowful reverie with an almost-shriek, "Sir! Are you even attending to me?"

He looks to his wife, grimaces, stands. "No, of course not." He drops the paper and stalks out of the room. Air! I need air! Time for another walk. Five miles should do it. He pulls on his walking-coat, snugs his second-best topper onto his carefully coifed head, checks his pockets for combustibles, and heads out the door at a brisk deck-covering pace.

The evening light is still golden, reminding him of those fabled southern beaches of his youth from so long ago, back when his whole life lay ahead, back when he thought 'exploring uncharted waters' was his reason to exist. Maps. Yes, maps. The world needs more maps.

He recalls a comment made at 'The Club' last week by that young ponce Emberton. 'Uncharted maps', indeed! There's no such thing, Emberton is a simpleton, same as Portia. Maps show you the way. Oh, how I wish there'd been a map for matrimony! I could have saved myself from dashing upon the rocks and staving in my timbers. He nods. Yes, women should come with maps.

Once his pipe is drawing satisfactorily, he heads east, striding along in the controlled manner of a fit man still vigorous in his habits. It is with some surprise when, about 10 minutes later, a voice he vaguely recognizes calls his name and he turns.

The Approach

"Lord Featherington! I say, just the chap!" The voice is jolly, confident, almost threatening in its enthusiasm. Archie gives the suited cove the once-over; proper attire, proper hat, proper footwear, but a slightly improper smile. Archie frowns. He knows the face. Where has he seen this man before?

The man solves that cognitive dilemma by thrusting out a hand. "It's Barclay Holmes; we went to school together back in '73. I was 2 years ahead. You set a long-distance speed record that year that has yet to be broken, I believe. Good show, eh, wot? How are you?"

As Archie shakes the man's hand, stiff memories flood back; Eton, 1773, when the world was his oyster and anything seemed possible. How had it come to this; him trapped on land in a loveless marriage with no firm hand at the helm? Confusion and remorse flare up and he is temporarily lost for words as he stares up at the taller man with stolid politeness.

Mr. Holmes doesn't seem to notice. "Yes, those were good years, not like now, not with Europe buzzing like a hive kicked by a French boot and The Ton all abuzz with scandal." The man glances pointedly at Archie, "Speaking of buzzes, I hear you have a country niece staying with you."

The memory of his promise to a panicky younger brother and images of a rounded belly that cannot be hidden for much longer rush in to overlay his melancholy and Archie huffs, "Oh, yes, she's here to make a suitable match. My wife is most desirous to sling the gel into matrimony as soon as possible."

"I'm sure," Holmes mutters then falls into step with Archie, shortening his lanky stride as the two men stroll along the tree-lined street. After a block of silence, Barclay pipes up, "I say, I'm very glad to have run into you, although, truth be told, I was rather hoping we'd meet."

"WERE you?" Archie mutters back.

The Opening Gambit

They've come to the portico of a branch of The Bank of England and Barclay pauses, his eyes gleaming. "Look up there. What a fine institution. England is secure if her banks are safe, yes?"

Archie frowns. "England is secure because of her 'Wooden Walls'. It is stout oaken ships and the men who sail them that keep us safe. You can't have forgotten Trafalgar!"

Barclay purses his lips, almost like what he says next will be distasteful. "Right you are, sir, my apologies. I haven't forgotten Trafalgar but I'm stating the plain truth. England will stand resolute as long as her banks are secure and her Navy strong. However, I'm sorry to say that her banks are NOT secure. We are safe from invasion by sea but there are other ways to attack a country. What I'm going to impart next will be upsetting so please don't think me a lunatic."

The two men resume walking but now their heads are closer together and their mien more serious.

"Bonaparte," Barclay murmurs, making Archie start in reflex, "his plans to invade England fell apart by 1805. Thank god for the Russians." At Archie's quick breath, Barclay nods. "Oh yes, the French might already be here if not for the jemmies thrown at them by other countries. I work for a Ministry branch that monitors 'Enemies of the Realm' and we are watching the little Frenchman very carefully."

Archie raises an eyebrow. "What has all this to do with me?"

Barclay smiles coldly. "Bonaparte always floods a country with funny money right before he marches in and starts throwing his weight around. England was to be no different. There were rumors of a cache of false British pounds squirreled away somewhere here in London along with the counterfeit printing plates. Now this is what I call 'a loose end' and it needs tying up. My Minister has instructed me to do just that." He casts a conspiratorial eye onto his companion. "I doubt the cache still exists, paper being so useful for kindling and wiping backsides… but the plates? That's a different matter."

His companion puffs hard on his pipe while thinking furiously of the image of Britannia pressed against bare arses! He is surprised at how upset this thought makes him.

Holmes hears Archie's silence as assent. "Last year, fresh counterfeits began circulating. We've been contacted by the Portuguese ambassador as these notes are turning up in Portugal too due to our shared garrisons. The Portuguese Regency Council is sending someone to help us look into it but the situation is reaching crisis proportions." He grins at Archie knowingly. "All those lovely new £1 and £2 notes in your pockets – not worth the paper they're printed on."

"WHAT?" Archie almost bites the stem of his pipe in shock.

"Oh, yes," Barclay assures him, "Remember the Restriction Act? Passed in Parliament in 1797 because there's not enough gold in the banks to change the larger notes. The story will become public knowledge very soon and create a financial panic if we don't do something about it."

"We?" Archie chuffs, not liking the sound of this plural at all.

"Well, my Minister and I," Barclay admits. "I am tasked to find the plates, the counterfeiter, and the printer. We think there's only one source so far, a mysterious shadowy crime figure known only as 'M'. Whoever he is, he's obviously got the plates and is using them to his own ends." Holmes pauses again before saying, "Ever heard of Jonathan Wild?"

This question catches Archie off-guard, which doesn't happen often so he keeps his head down and finally says, "Only what I read in the 1743 book by Henry Fielding. Was he also an Eton boy?"

Holmes chuffs a laugh. "Not to my knowledge but it wouldn't surprise me. He was what I like to call a 'double agent', Master Thief-Taker AND a master thief. He played both sides of the fence and paid the price in 1725 at the gallows." There is a short pause then, "I need help in finding the plates and that's where you come into it if you are a loyal subject to His Majesty and a man of steady nerve."

Archie is needled into intoning icily, "My nerve has never been questioned and I take umbrage with any doubt of my loyalty to the Crown. State your business plainly, if you please."

The Plan

"Stoutly spoken, I see that my memories of you are true. All right, here's my idea. We need to create a demand for a large amount of forged notes in a short time. To my mind, taking into account the world this 'M' inhabits, this suggests a gambling debt that must be honoured within 24 hours. I have other ideas in play but I think you are the perfect subject for this particular scheme."

Archie shakes his head. "I am not a gambler and my wife could not keep such a secret."

Barclay stops and puts a hand upon Archie's arm. "No one else must know. These are dangerous people who would slit your throat if they thought you were onto them. Remember counterfeiting is a treasonous offence. And since you are NOT a gambler then you will be a hopelessly inept novice who loses money at every opportunity and at the drop of a hat."

"I see," Archie growls, puffing his pipe into a glowing mini-inferno, "So I'm to play a chump, am I?"

Barclay nods. "Yes, sorry. You'll start out small with cards and dice at your club then you'll gradually hunt further and further afield as you attempt to recoup your losses. In this manner you will cover every borough in London until we find the source of the counterfeits. You must seem to be on the faltering edge of financial and personal ruin until…"

Archie bobs his chin. "Until what?"

Barclay chuffs a laugh. "Well, that's as far as I've gotten. We need something big, something huge, something that will tempt you to try to regain all your lost fortune in one fell swoop and then…"

"About that," Archie grunts, "I'm not going to jeopardize my family's security for you, no matter how blighted the situation. I have three daughters, not to mention that niece, all in need of matrimonial attachment and a wife determined to make it happen. I haven't a single thruppence to waste on…"

Barclay laughs suddenly. "Oh, my dear chap, did I forget to mention that my office will fund this whole farce? Sorry, I get caught up in the chase and sometimes forget these little details. No, your foray into gambling will be totally supported with good English pound sterling supplied by my Ministry."

Archie takes his pipe in hand, stares down into the bowl. "Am I understanding you a'right? You're asking me to leap into high seas without a lifeboat in the hopes of flushing out this 'M' without getting my throat cut?"

Barclay beams as if pleased by a performing dog. "Yes, you will locate the guilty borough then we'll need a perfect high-stakes gamble for you to take, because you will be so in debt that you will offer up the deed to your manor and…"

"My MANOR?!" Archie barks, his eyes jerking up, "Absolutely not! I would NEVER…"

"Relax, dear fellow, it won't be your actual deed, we have excellent counterfeiters working for us too, but the size of your bet will force the need for a huge amount of bad notes in order to honour the wager. We'll be watching all the print shops in the guilty borough and we're sure to catch them in the act. Then we'll ship all the oily blighters off in chains to New Holland. Good riddance, I say."

Archie paces on for almost half a block, thinking and leaving puffs of pipe-smoke in his wake. Finally he mutters, "You seem to have an easy answer to everything. Do you like this sort of work; this covert scheming and searching for enemies of the Crown under every bush?"

"Oh, yes, I enjoy it very much," replies Barclay with relish. "I match wits with devious minds and work ceaselessly to ensure England remains English. In fact, I'm thinking of writing a book to hand down to my sons so that they may follow in my footsteps. If I have my way, there will always be a Holmes working tirelessly for the good of our country. I'm thinking of titling my opus 'For The Good Of The Nation: the Use of Scientific Method, Elementary Detection, and Logical Thinking in the Apprehension of Criminal Master-Minds in England and Abroad'. What do you think?"

"I think," Archie intones, "it sounds like a cracking good read if you are obsessed with enemy agents hiding amongst the rhododendrons. As for me, a simple Navy man, I follow orders."

"I know," Barclay sighs happily, "You are just the sort of man I need to put my plan into action. What do you say, Lord Featherington? Are you ready for a new adventure?"

Archie muses for a moment then nods. "Do you know, Mr. Holmes? I think I am. Life has become so boring that I'm chafing for action no matter how small or obscure." He pins his companion with a gimlet eye. "However, I will not simply take your word for any of this, Eton boy or not. Have your Minister contact the Admiralty. I will abide by their decision." He nods. "So, yes, I will take your commission so long as I have clear direction from on high and there is no danger to my family."

The Agreement

"Excellent, excellent," Barclay grins as he hands over a rather fat envelope, "Here's your first installment. If you open a bank account under another name, I will keep you in funds. Make sure to account for every penny; my Minister is a stickler for efficiency. Start flinging money to the four winds as soon as you may. You must be losing major amounts by month's end, by which time we must find a suitably monstrous gamble for you to take. Hopefully something will suggest itself to me by then."

Their walk has taken them to the edge of the respectable part of town and to the mouth of an alley which leads into one of the less salubrious parts of the great capital. The alley walls are grimy and defaced with posters for garish entertainments. "Hmm," Archie mutters, eyeing a poster just past Barclay's shoulder, "As to that, I think I may have a suggestion to offer."

Barclay's eyelids lift. "DO you? Well, well, well, I like a man who thinks on his feet."

Archie grunts, "You don't know many Navy men, do you? We think on our feet even when asleep." He gestures to the poster advertising an upcoming boxing match and they start making plans. Everything is finalized in their minds by the time they retrace their steps back to Featherington Manor.

The two men shake. "Good luck," Barclay says, "and try not to enjoy rashly squandering my money."

"No, indeed," Archie says with a brightening eye, "I shall huff and puff and bluster and bemoan my bad luck. The Bridgerton bucks across the way will be happy to lighten my purse, I'm sure."

"Most excellent," Barclay agrees as he begins to walk away. "This is a simple plan and sure to work. After all, what can possibly go wrong?" With a final wave, the man strides off, long legs scissoring.

Archie watches the man diminish with distance then shakes his head, turning up his front walk, already hearing the feminine arguments flaring up within. "Yes," he mutters as he tarries on the step, not wanting to walk into whatever contretemps awaits in his unhappy home, "what indeed?"

END – part 1

*S/P note: New Holland = Australia. Also, I hope you got the 'Holmes', 'M', 'Elementary' in-joke*

**ffh notes: Best guess for the 1813 Portuguese ambassador is Domingos António de Sousa Coutinho (1762-1833), 1st Marquis of Funchal, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from March 1803-1814. At this time Portugal was ruled by a Regency Council since its Prince Regent, João Maria José Francisco Xavier de Paula Luís António Domingos Rafael (1767-1826), later John VI who reigned 1816-1825, had fled with an untold number of his court from the invasion of Napoleon's army in November 1807 rather than have himself and his family taken, or wiped out, by the French. He headed for the Portuguese colonies in Brazil where he spent his time building them into a kingdom until he was recalled to the Old World in 1821.

Henry Fielding (1707-1754) was a writer who became Bow Street magistrate in 1748 and was one of the founders of the Bow Street Runners. His 'Life and Death of Jonathan Wild the Great' is a satire based on the life of a real criminal hanged in 1725, its main theme being that the measure of a man's greatness consists of how much trouble he is able to cause in his lifetime.

A jemmy is a short, strong crowbar, part of a burglar's kit.

The Bank Restriction Act of 1797 removed the requirement for the Bank of England to pay out gold upon the presentation of its notes due to over-production of paper money to fund the war with France. This was in effect until 1821. During this time larger bank notes could only be exchanged for smaller denominations of £1 and £2, now printed for the first time, and technically worthless.**