nothingupmysleeve | Closed RP: Lord Roxbury's Questionable Guest

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closed rp

Closed RP: Lord Roxbury's Questionable Guest

London had changed a lot since the century turned, Daimon thought as he stepped out of his hired coach and looked up the grand sweep of stairs leading to Lord Roxbury's mansion. But some things never changed. Here in the Year of Our Lord 1903, rich Westenders still offered up their children to each other like they would any other bribe--selling off daughters and occasionally sons for the sake of money and connections. Granted, they packaged each step of the transaction nicely. Like tonight's gathering: young ladies swanning around in ball gowns, alcohol flowing, more food laid on the dining tables than the whole of the East End saw in three days. Awkward interactions between teens and twentysomethings--and the occasional aging and somewhat predatory widower, whom the girls often tried unsuccessfully to avoid. Lord Roxbury, a skinny half-Frenchman with floppy dark blond hair, a prissy mustache and an annoyingly nasal voice, would be out tonight in force, leering at women a third his age. This despite his fourth wife being in the ground for barely a month. Men like Roxbury were why Daimon hated the rich with such passion. And tonight, he intended to take the bastard down several pegs.

He tipped his driver well, instructing him in low tones to return at eleven sharp and wait near the servants' entrance at the back of the building, and then loped athletically up the stairs with his cane under his arm, earning a few gasps and comments from the hoi polloi. Let them fuss a little, he thought as he smirked to himself. It was the only warning they were getting of what was to come. His plan was simple: quietly run a telepathic con game against the worst people here, take them for whatever he could, make sure they didn't remember him--and then cap the evening by humiliating Roxbury as an amusing distraction, while he quietly slipped upstairs to replace some of the man's jewel collection with glass replicas.

He heard a few comments on his race as he topped the stairs, and made a mental note of the speakers--an older woman and a nervous redheaded man who turned out to be her son. Hearing "Shouldn't that wog be going in the servants' entrance?" was common to him, but nowadays he didn't have to just put up with it. He paused near a pretty brunette and glanced back at them, a sly smile on his face. Tonight the two were going to get ridiculously drunk and air every bit of dirty laundry their family had gathered for three generations, and she would develop a lingering impulse to punch police officers in the face. He looked between them as they stared at him, and then he turned on his heel and headed inside, pausing only to tip his hat to the young lady.

"Did you see how that bloody Wog looked at me? The nerve of him!" The woman had swelled up to half again her size, looking a bit like an angry pigeon in her lavender and grey ensemble.

"Yes, Mother, I know, that was terribly rude." The redhead raised his hands in a conciliatory manner, just trying to calm her down before she made a gigantic scene. He was clearly terrified of her.

"I should summon the police at once! People like that should know their pl--" She paused. A puzzled expression crossed her face, and her features and manner relaxed. "...I...Cecil, what was I talking about?"

Cecil looked relieved for a split second--and then the strange confusion settled into his features as well. "I um...well...honestly I can't remember. I must have gotten distracted."

She scowled at him. "Well, come on, then, don't dawdle about like an idiot. We'll catch our deaths out here!" She heaved her way up the stairs, brushing rudely past the young lady near the entrance as she did so. "Mind where you're walking!" she snapped at the girl.

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Amelia Atwater was one of those young women whose fathers dangled as bait in front of any eligible bachelor possible, hoping to lure in one that could give him the best advantage within the society elite. Or, in his case, could provide him with enough funds to continue his nasty little gambling habit rather than fixing up her crumbling childhood home. The fact that Lord Roxbury was not on the market is probably why her father has forced her to attend tonight's function.

Honestly, that is exactly why she's taken refuge out here in the cold. She'd risk catching pneumonia if it meant not having to smile and simper as he pawed at her. Oh, if she had to marry him, she'd ... throw herself off of a bridge.

If she had the faintest inkling of what was to come for the disgusting man, she might actually try to enjoy herself tonight, especially as it was happening. These people - they think that they have the right to act in any way that they want without any consequence. She'd always found that ... ridiculous. She's got other choice words for her feelings, but they were really rather unladylike.

She hears the comments that the woman and her son make, and since nobody she knows is around to tell her otherwise, she huffs out a displeased breath, rolling her eyes. A man can't even walk up the stairs without getting insulted for it? Running away and living a life as a hermit has never looked like a better life choice than it does now. But she doesn't say anything, and after leveling a glance at them, he doesn't either, and she nods back as she continues her slow path around and around the grounds, just so that she doesn't have to go inside.

Of course, that brings her closer to the pair of them, and she's forced to stumble backwards as they pass. "Terribly sorry, ma'am," she replies, her words dripping with sarcasm.

She wouldn't feel the least bit terrible if the awful woman ... tripped on the long hem of her dress. She wouldn't feel terrible about it at all.

A hand comes down on her shoulder from behind as she stumbles, just long enough to steady her. "She's drunk," comes the grim explanation, a little breathless from darting back outside. "Lady Castleworth never appears anywhere in public without enough sails to the wind to pull a galleon." There is black amusement in his voice. He's not technically standing too close to her, but comments might have been raised...were it not for the spectacle starting just inside.

Having planted herself in the doorway, the woman set her stance wide, and scowled around at the assembled crowd while her son did her best to edge away and make his escape inside. Fists on hips, she opened her wide, froggy mouth as if about to pronounce a condemnation of everyone around her. Instead, after a moment, she let out a long, extravagant belch that would have made a beer-swaddled longshoreman proud.

A burst of embarrassed laughter rippled through the crowd, and her son crimsoned and hurriedly dashed toward the punch table. "See?" Daimon chuckled in the young girl's ear.

Amelia is thankful for the assistance, as the very last thing she needs to do is to meet up again with her father, dirty and wet, and have to try to explain that it wasn't her fault that she'd gotten that way. He'd never believe her, not when she's employed just about every tactic available to her in order to have an excuse not to meet with a potential suitor.

An accident, though, no matter how true the tale turned out to be, would just infuriate the man.

His words cause a nervous little titter to escape her lips - it's not as though it wasn't common knowledge that the older woman enjoyed a drink or twelve on occasion, but it's not polite to speak such things out loud. Such gossip is best done behind closed doors. "It seems the drink has caught up with her tonight."

And then, there is that display in the doorway, and Amelia, shocked beyond belief, cannot help herself from laughing all the louder - a pleased, amused sound that she hasn't made in far too long. Thank goodness the other partygoers were far more interested in what Lady Castleworth was going to do next, otherwise undue attention would be paid to her.

"If that is how drinks cause a person to behave, I vow from this moment on, I will not partake."

Daimon just chuckled. "I'd like to say there's some tragic story behind her overindulgence, but sadly it's a simple case of her being stupid, stubborn and loving a tipple. I predict it will end up getting her into all the trouble she deserves." He stepped up beside her and smiled at her mischievously, with the manner of one who knows many dirty secrets. "As for her poor son, well...he'll probably be less insufferable once he's out of her shadow."

He watched as her blushing offspring and a servant did their best to wrestle the woman inside before she gave another "oration". She was purple-faced and fighting, completely unaware of the conveniently-arrived journalist at the bottom of the stairs. Then he turned back to the pretty brunette, who was hiding her discomfort well given the circumstances, in his opinion.

"Daimon Winter." He bowed a little, not entirely informally and with a certain grace. "Dealer in antiquities and rare items. You're sure that you're quite all right after that?"

Upstairs, another belch sounded, quickly muffled. He snorted. "Excesses of anything are damaging to health and reputation. Thought I doubt you would be anything but funny and charming with enough liquor in you, it's certainly not something to pursue with any enthusiasm. Especially absinthe and the distilled stuff."

The answer is not at all surprising - after all, she's forced to live with a man who has his own vices, indulging in alcohol included. Maybe at first, it had been done as a way to cope with the loss of her mother, but since then, it's become, sadly, an everyday occurrence. She returns the smile with her own, one that hints that she's more aware than a woman of her age should be. "After this outburst, I suspect that he's better off on his own, don't you?"

Oh, goodness, watching the scene in front of her unfold, Amelia can't help but feel a wave of secondhand embarrassment wash over her. It's funny, certainly, to see the older woman behave in such a way, but knowing the stories that are probably already starting to spread makes her hate these types of functions all the more. While she might feel just the slightest bit distressed, she certainly does her best to conceal it. Best not to draw attention to herself and give the gossips all the more fodder to make up tales with.

"Amelia Atwater," she replies, offering a curtsy that has been honed to perfection after years of practice. "and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance - even if this isn't the most ... typical of circumstances." She stands straighter, nodding and chuckling gently. "I'm fine, thank you. And believe me, I've seen worse."

She's flattered by the compliment, and she ducks her head, glad for the darkness of the evening, and being able to hide her flushed cheeks. "Oh, I don't think that I'll ever have more than just the smallest glass of wine with dinner. Goodness knows that I don't want to end up like that."

"No situation is anywhere near as typical as it looks on the surface, believe me. This crowd is filled with quiet desperation, and there isn't a soul here without their secrets." He offers his arm. "Come, let's get you out of the cold."

He points out the son, who has stepped out to get some air after leaving his mother in the hands of the servants. "He'll finally have a life of his own once he gets out from under her. In fact, I know someone just perfect for the poor boy, and I've been thinking of playing Cupid." The person in question? One of the widowers, a gentleman in his forties who had only married to save his reputation.

"People are my business, you see. Understanding them, helping them sort certain issues, that sort of thing. It's quite easy to sort out basic things about most people, just from watching them. That's how I know you aren't the sort to end up a perpetually inebriated harridan in an overdone dress."

Edited 2014-02-17 03:52 (UTC)

Although she's surprised at the statement, it's sort of ... very true, but to hear what she thinks come from someone elses' mouth, it's something that she thought she might never experience. Most people thought the same way as her father - that a person's secrets and emotions and wants don't matter as long as they do what is expected of them. "Th - thank you. Your kindness is much appreciated."

Amelia allows her gaze to follow the line of his finger, taking in the sight of the man in front of her, taking a break from the chaos going on inside that's been caused by his mother. "You would do such a thing for a man that you don't even know?"

She is about to ask why when he continues on, and she quiets, just listening. Already, this man is not at all like anyone else she has ever met. And that piques her curiosity in a way that she is unaccustomed to. "And how do you think I will end up, if not like her?"

"No worries," he replies with a little grin, very briefly slipping into a slightly more working class way of speaking. Just a hint, to see what she'd do. Matters of class had more significance for some than for others, and he rarely wastes time on snobs. But she really doesn't seem the sort.

He answers her observation with a little chuckle. "People rarely get what they deserve out of life, good or bad. Where I can, I like to tip the balance a bit. It doesn't fix the world, but it does fix things for that person, that family. What have you."

He pauses at the question and considers her. "How would you like to end up?" he asks simply.

The shift in vernacular doesn't phase Amelia - after all, other than her sisters, her best friends in that crumbling estate she calls home are the maids, and the cooks, and the stableboys that tend to her mare. Actually, the more relaxed tone and words, the easier it is for her to settle into the conversation. The stilted phrases and tones of the people inside the party usually set her teeth to grating.

"More people should think like you do, I think. Even if you can only brighten one person's life, and even if it's just for but a moment - I think that's wonderful."

Truly, Amelia doesn't even have to think about her answer. "Happy. And free."

"Well, it's the sort of thing that only catches on if individual people decide to do it. If I went up to most of this lot and told them they should...well, you can imagine how that would go over." His eyes twinkle as he holds the door for her.

"But it helps. London is rough. It's even rough on wealthier sorts--except for those who help make it so rough, of course. But that can be anyone."

He listens to her answer very thoughtfully. "You know, a whole lot of the young women here feel the same way." A brief pause, and he quickly adds "I-if experience is anything to go on. I...don't like the idea of arranging marriages like this. It...well...people aren't commodities, basically."

"It wouldn't go over well at all, I'm sure. They're far too used to their way of life, and their thinking to go changing it now. If you want change, if you want a revolution ... you spread your message amongst the young."

She nods her thanks and steps inside, not at all looking forward to the looks and whispers she knows she's going to receive. "It's even rougher on those unfortunate enough to be forced to be here against their will - those who don't believe the same way these idiots do."

Amelia sighs, nodding along, actually sort of touched by the knowledge that not everyone in her world was completely ridiculous and shortsighted. "There should definitely be more men in this world that feel the same."

He's pleasantly surprised at the firmness of her statement. He hates it that so many women of this era seem to feel the need to never express their real opinions. "I think evolution is better than revolution. If only because it happens in a slower and less violent way. But that's only my opinion, though it's fairly well informed."

He notices a flurry of negative thoughts as they are seen walking in together, and lifts an eyebrow in irritation. Normally mixed race people are never allowed at upper class parties, let alone in the company of a proper British girl who wishes to keep her reputation. But Daimon, however good hearted, has no respect for what bigots think is proper, or for playing by any rules but his own. He reaches out with his mind, the only outward sign being an easily-missed golden gleam in his eyes, and squashes their negative thoughts firmly, forcing them to focus elsewhere. No one will remember them together, or remember him at all.

"Yeah, I feel bad for those who don't handle this well. I don't exactly fit in with society types myself. I do what I can for them. It's why I go to these things." Correction: he mostly comes here to rob rich snobs, but if his conscience tickles him about someone in the process, he generally follows it.

He looks her way a bit sharply at the comment, then touches her hand briefly. "Well, there are some of us. And more than you think would agree at least some. But no. Not enough, I suppose."

It's a sad state of affairs that that is the case, but it is, although Amelia has never been shy in sharing her own. It's probably one of the reasons that her father wants to marry her off, and as quickly as possible, to whoever will take her. "Revolution doesn't have to be violent - it can begin in the smallest of ways, such as ... not keeping quiet when one is faced with an injustice."

Although Amelia might not be able to hear the negative thoughts, she is finely attuned to noticing when people notice her, and the glances that they spare, which are not always hidden behind smiles. She simply holds her head up all the higher, determined to ignore them, and, for the first time in forever, enjoy herself and the conversation that she and Daimon are having. It's so rare that she meets someone who thinks of things similarly to the way that she herself goes, after all.

"Hopefully, they appreciate your assistance. I know that I do - I would have made quite the fool of myself had I stayed out in the cold."

She offers a smile, and a quick nod, reluctant to have to step away anytime soon. "Not yet, no, but maybe with time, there will be."

"Oh yes, I agree. And it's the little, subtle revolutions that tend to stick." He gestures around. "Half the people that you see being nasty to each other aren't even bad people. They're nasty because the way the world is now oppresses them so badly that they can't stand it. You can take one thing--say, tight-lacing your corset. Yes, it's fashionable and some idiots may say nasty things if it's not done. But it makes women ill. So the more women that stand up and refuse to do it, the better. It gives the others permission to loosen up eventually themselves, and one day...a bad fad dies out." His eyes twinkle.

He looks across the room as they come in. "It needs doing. This is a bad age, love, and no mistake." A little slip of his accent, going from Oxford to Whitechapel for about a second. "When someone has power, they have two choices. They can let themselves become arrogant and aloof, like so many do. Or they can use that power, and remember what being "noble" really means."

He smiles at her thanks and shrugs. "It's one of the better ways of introducing myself! Besides, truth is...I just hate bullies."

A rustle of the crowd, and there comes Lord Roxbury, in a ridiculous purple waistcoat and tails that make him look like he was about to step on stage to star in a satire. He looks around, eyes hooded in a way that would look sensual if he had even a hint of a chin. His gaze seems to lock on the bosoms of every girl he looks at.

"Ugh." Daimon mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "wanker". "So, what are your thoughts about being here tonight? I...mislike some of the company."

It's funny that he should mention corsets, she thinks, sighing as deeply as she was allowed. "Yes, perhaps my battles aren't all in vain. Perhaps my sisters will live in a world that's at least a bit kinder than the one that I've been forced into living. Without corsets, and without so many antiquated rules for behavior. Hopefully, they have a better chance at finding happiness than I will." And that isn't Amelia being overly dramatic - she's simply realized her situation, and her station in life, and what it demands of her.

If she's surprised at the change of accent, she barely even bats an eye. After all, plenty of the servants at her father's estate sound exactly the same. Although it does beg the question of how he'd been invited to a party such as this, and in any capacity other than server, or doorman. "If only more people would choose to be noble. But I think that power ... corrupts."

Well, it would seem that they've got that in common, too. And perhaps it tickles her to hear him say the words - he'd hate her father if they ever had the opportunity to meet.

Amelia doesn't have the time to answer before the crowd parts and she catches sight of Lord Roxbury, too, preening like a peacock while simultaneously undressing the women in attendance with his eyes, and she feels absolutely sick to her stomach. This is who she might be expected to marry? She'd rather drown herself first.

If he followed the line of her eyesight, he'd notice who she was watching carefully, as well. "I'd much rather be anywhere else in the world, actually."

"Sometimes it is that we're forced to make our own luck. Though I suppose that depends on your thoughts on rule-breaking." A brief wicked grin that shows he's not exactly against it himself.

He smiles sadly. "Before I made my fortune I swore to myself that I'd never end up like that. Cold, selfish, childish...it's not my lot. Upper class shouldn't mean you dig your heart out with a silver spoon and keep it chilled in crystal."

He follows her gaze, and sighs quietly. "Nnf. Can't say I blame you. Now, I have one or two things I have to do before I leave, but if you'd like to sneak out and do something less aggravating, I could arrange it."

"I think I'm beginning to see that. I can understand that it is up to me, rather than depending on anyone else, because it's obvious that these are not the types of people I need to be placing my heart and my trust with." She pauses, offering the quickest nod of her head, her lips quirking up into a smile. "I am not averse to a little ... mischief."

It is true that she never meets people quite like Daimon, and the more he speaks, the more Amelia wants to know. "Just try telling them that. I think they're all too happy in their closed off little world. I think they'd fear having to step out of it, even for a moment."

Amelia does her best to make herself as small as possible, just so that the Duke doesn't catch sight of her and head over - the last thing she wants to do is to be forced alone with the man. She might look a bit trapped when Daimon mentions that he's got things to do, but of course he was probably not at all interested in being used as a human shield, no matter how much she is actually enjoying the conversation. "Please, yes. You won't have to ask me twice."

His eyebrows lift slightly, and he snickers. "Punch! I'm not dealing with this insane crowd without a drink. Come, let's get at the bowl before our host swills down half of it." He starts leading the way over to the extremely lengthy drink table.

"That is how it works. Poets call it "the gilded cage"--if it's luxurious and pretty enough, most people won't protest being there or ever seek their freedom." He notices her discomfort and subtly shifts himself between her and the Duke's line of sight. There are advantages to being big.

"Right then." He leads her around a gaggle of mums and their frightened-looking offspring, glancing around. "First however I should ask you a question. How much do you dislike our host?"

It's unladylike of Amelia to wonder, but she can't help the fleeting thought that maybe some trickster had taken it upon themselves to spike the punch - she wouldn't mind if they did, as anything to make her forget how dreadful these soirees could be would be nothing short of a miracle. She sighs, following along, keeping her voice down, even though she's certain that nobody is bothering to try to listen in to their conversation. "That man is absolutely a pig."

And then, he's taken his place in order to block her from the Duke's view, and she's grateful for the gesture. This was far more interesting and pleasing a conversation than anything the Duke would speak about. And that's not taking into the account the fact that he'd be speaking to her chest, rather than to her. "I can't imagine that they're truly happy. They have to know, on some level, that all of this means nothing."

Amelia smiles at anyone who looks her way, raising an eyebrow as she ponders the question. "He always looks at me as though I'm nothing more than a ... a piece of meat. Not even as a prize to be won. I despise the man."

"Sometimes wealth makes a pig of a man. Sometimes because he was raised that way, sometimes because the moment money protects him from life's troubles he forgets those still plagued by them. He gets full of himself. He gives no care to how his actions trouble others." Daimon's lips twist.

"My father is the Maharajah of Ceylon. Like our friend here, he takes the 'noble' right out of nobility." His eyes narrow as they follow Roxbury around the room. He keeps himself carefully interposed between her and the man's line of sight as they head for the punch table. "Such people not only deny their misery but take it out on others."

He draws near the punchbowl, taking note of a gaggle of girls huddling together like frightened chickens nearby. Roxbury is headed for them like an arrow. "The man is diseased, in more ways than one. When he's not sending his latest wife into an early grave with pregnancies, he's abusing the whores of Whitechapel." One of the reasons Daimon had decided to avenge the whole East End against him.

He takes up two glasses and ladles up some punch as he watches the wormy noble's invasive attempts at flirting. "I'll keep him off you, don't worry."

Amelia could pinch herself, at least to prove that she isn't making all of this up in her head, so desperate is she to have someone who understands her. Surely, this can't be a figment of her imagination, no matter how vivid it might be.

But she's taken out of her thoughts at the mention of his father's title, surprised that someone of such lineage feels much the same as herself - just a simple lady, and slightly impoverished, at that, no one special. "I am not the only one, then, that wishes to be seen as something other than a selfish mans' legacy - ", she starts, only pausing to peek around Daimon's shoulder to see where the disgusting older man is, quickly standing straight and hiding as he comes nearer, thankfully not catching sight of her.

"We should all be so lucky to have someone like you watching out for us. I wish I could thank you properly for what you've done for me tonight."

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Closed RP: Lord Roxbury's Questionable Guest

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