Part 9 – Featherington Sees His Chance

Featherington is lost at sea but it's a kind, gentle, blue sea that cradles and bathes him in stimulating warmth. When a pale-coloured spindle of a creature swims right up and nibbles on his nose, he lifts a hand to brush it away and finds it is one end of a tight roll of paper with a pair of glowing dark eyes at the other end.

Catia giggles as his hand closes softly around the paper and tugs, preparing to toss it aside and gather her to him. "Nnãoo," she whispers, pulling back on the paper even as she smiles teasingly and snuggles her naked perfection down over his right side. One splendid leg is doubled over his loins protectively. "Wake up, my Archie, talk to me. Who is Stee-fan Hessel-hoff?"

Featherington pauses. "Where did you hear that name?" he asks quietly.

"I don't hear it. I read it, here." Catia flourishes the paper. She is proud of her ability to read, although she came to it rather late in her hard life. Featherington concentrates on the fact that the instrument of her teasing is a bank note.

Having set up an account in the name of Stephen Hesselhoff, Esq. so that Holmes could deposit funds, Archie has spent the last three months drawing money out of it and splashing it all over the city. Now he plucks the note from her slim fingers and sits up, unrolling the fine paper to squint at it in the dimness of flickering lamplight.

Catia stretches a lazy arm behind his back to the lamp on the table, coaxing it a bit nearer with dexterous fingers. Then she pulls herself upright, drops a kiss onto his shoulder and cuddles into his right side again as though England is too cold to inhabit without being as close to him as she can get. With her determined little chin planted next to his, she pores over the crumpled note with him, one arm comfortably lining his broad shoulders and snaking down his far arm, snugging her bare breasts into him absently. Her face is serious, her eyes intent, as he holds the note open.

"It is false?" she murmurs, settling her free palm light as a bird on his nearest hand. "Teach me."

She catches the near end of the paper and keeps it taut so Featherington can study the note carefully in the dim light, looking for the telltale marks of its manufacture. His meticulous accounts of how much he has squandered, as he expects that someday he will have to account for the monies used in this investigation, tell him he did not, on the date of this note, withdraw ten pounds from Stephen Hesselhoff's account. And he has never authorized anyone else to withdraw on his behalf.

"There," he says, indicating the upper left corner, "the Bank's signature image. It's too small and it's offset. And here," sweeping a fingertip along the bold flourishes surrounding the wording, "these are too clear, not nearly enough wear and tear on the plate. The forgers probably clean it after every use. They've even written in the Banks' name there by the teller's signature."

Now he turns his attention to the writing, tilting the paper, looking for tiny imperfections where the pen nib paused, scratching the surface and leaving tiny blots in the flow of the script. Of course, now he looks, he finds them easily. "See, there and there? Bank clerks live by their handwriting and they have to know their patrons but this name was obviously unfamiliar to whoever wrote this. And see that signature there, in the corner?"

Catia unrolls the lower right corner of the note to peer at the scrawl there. "You can't even make it out," Featherington sniffs. "No teller wrote that. Yes, this is fake. Where did you get it?"

She releases the paper dismissively and shrugs even closer, her free hand now traveling across her Archie's abdomen. "The muitos porcos who come, one of them. They think they can have me if they bribe Madame or the guarda de bordel, the enforcers, but only I choose who comes to my bed, as I have chosen you, meu amante. So! It is false." She nuzzles closer, nipping gently at Archie's ear, the angle of his jaw, "You will take it – mmm – to Senhor Holmes with the names of the – mmm – porcos I give you and find – mmm! – who it is who prints them?"

Featherington uses one hand to take hold of her chin, kissing her quickly as if to say 'Enough'. When her beautiful eyes focus on his again, he grins at her. "They've made their mistake at last, lovely; a great mistake, for I am Stephen Hesselhoff. That is the name on the account we've been using to lure the counterfeiters in. They know me at the Bank as the sole user. Try to discover who gave this to Madame, or the guarda, if you can."

"And why?" she asks. "If you are Hesselhoff and this your note –" and understanding floods her face. "A FALSE note!" She catches the paper away and crumples it further in her fist. "Big Eddie!" she says, naming one of the enforcers. "He gave me a note for a kiss and he is too stupid to know the one from the ten. I will question him. Perhaps for more kisses he will –"

"Catia!" Featherington captures her waving fist with his. "I don't like you trading yourself for… for that sort of –" He breaks off, cursing himself. This amazing woman is not his. He is still married with three daughters and she has orders to follow just as he does. How she carries them out is hers to decide. As much as he may long for it, and he is surprised to find just how much he does long for it, he has no part in her life. Just as she has no part in his.

"Forgive me, sweet," he tells her, but he can't release her hand, not just yet, not while she is looking at him so intently. "It's not my place and you certainly don't need my protection, but I – can't help but feel that –"

"Yes?" Catia demands after a pause in which Featherington reminds himself he has duties and responsibilities, obligations and an actual life, even if that life has become a painful drudgery. If he can go back to being just Baron Featherington, isolated and passed-over adjunct to Portia's drive to social success, he should. He definitely should. It's only proper. He's had his moment of joy and he's an honorable man after all; a respectable, moderately decent, ordinary, diminished, unhappy...

"We're wasting time," he spits out, pushing back his thoughts to focus on the way forward. He does not look directly into her darkening eyes now. "Get that name if you can, m'dear, we will need more notes with false teller names to trace their web. There's a rum opportunity to get a LOT more notes coming up soon. If they use Stephen Hesselhoff's account as they have, we shall have the head and the tail of their business, and that tail will be ours to pull. One more effort," he finishes, flinging back the warm covers and reaching for his breeches, "only one more, and we'll have them!"

END – part 9

*S/P note: muitos porcos = many pigs, meu amante = my lover*

**ffh note: As Archie points out, bank notes of the time were half-printed, half-written, like checks are today. Things like the amount the note was for and the bank's signature image ('logo' we may say today) were printed, while the account drawn on was written in, along with an endorsement of the amount to be given out, the date, and the signature of the cashing teller. So a printer was necessary to produce the notes but a handwriting forger was also necessary to fill in the account name and the teller's mark. Up until the mid-20th century, handwriting was an essential art for any aspiring businessman.

"Rum" is the Regency slang term for "excellent", or at least good, while today it means the opposite. Its opposite then was "queer", as in 'a queer cove'.**