Spivey here:
And I have never, ever, been more flummoxed.
I suppose you think it funny that my so-called worldly assistant is beyond my control. Where is he whenever I need him?—well, we certainly know where he spends a good deal of his time, perverted fiend that he is.
It’s all well and good for him to be obsessed with his own pleasures. I knew he was and planned to use all that business going on in his brain to mask my own activities—when I slipped in a request for action.
The FitzDuram incident ended well enough, no thanks to Spade-Filbert who was supposed to drop by Number 7 on the pretext of looking for Lucas, then “remember” FitzDuram and lure him away somewhere quiet where he could find out exactly why the man is pursuing the Princess after showing little interest for years. These things can blossom into dangerous complications if one doesn’t watch them.
How did FitzDuram know Desirée was in London just now? Tell me that. She’s arrived very early for the Season and doesn’t go about enough for there to be gossip about her presence.
I need a reliable assistant.
Lucas could become a problem. Lady Elspeth could become a problem. Gilbert Chillworth is a problem and he’d like to do his younger son harm, though don’t ask me why.
Well, look who is coming in my direction. Old Will himself—blasted nuisance.
Well, well. Look, concentrate while I can still get a word in without interruption. I’ve come to a conclusion that rattles my bones: Women have a cunning that might almost pass for intelligence in the area of accomplishing necessary maneuvers. That gathering at Number 7 tonight was little short of amazing. What have any of the men actually come up with in the way of a plan? Nothing. In fact they mostly wait around for the women to tell them what to do, then, if not supervised, make a mess of things.
What’s the matter with me? Complimenting females? Overworked, I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Evening to you, Will.” Damn him.
My friends, do we trust Verbeux? What does he get out of all this, that’s what I’d like to know. Or should I say I’d like to know what he’s planning to get out of this?
“It is a nice evening, Will—You think it would be polite if I called you, Mr. Shakespeare. Absolutely, Will. Oops, slipped. I’ll try to do better—Will.”
Listen, you lot, because I’ve got to whisper. Something’s afoot with Larch Lumpit, the wretch. I suppose I’m the only one who has noticed he isn’t around. One wonders why, but I won’t give any hints to make a solution easier for you.
Also, that attack on Chillworth. Never saw those fellows before in my life…afterlife. They have to be working for someone, but who? Think about it. Try to be helpful for once.
“No, Mr. Shakespeare, I can’t say I do know any Hamlet. Odd name that. Someone you met in that common scribblers’ circle where all your ilk fight for time to spout off on the open air plinth, is he?”
The way the man looks at me—really, one would think he had some grudge against me.
“He’s the son of the King of Norway, you say? Of course he is Willy boy. Try not to bump into anyone while you’re hopping—I mean, flying out.”