Duplicity [Available on Radish]

Chapter 1

There were two types of beautiful women in the world, according to young Philip Mallory. There were those who knew how to utilise their beauty well, and those who simply did not.

"It's like this," he explained to his friends. "All beautiful women are vain. But the exceptional ones understand that a cultivated mind enhances her beauty better than any miracle potion. She thinks about her looks, but she's not bound by it, for she realises those looks will wilt like rose petals. When they fall away, she had better marry, or she faces a lifetime of misery. Those who don't understand this will revel in its fleeting benefits until she wakes up one day to discover it's all gone. Her time is finite! These ladies will spend a fortune on useless stuff sold to her by any charlatan promising to turn back time. But no amount of money or miracle cures could stave off the impending doom. And perhaps she even sped up her ageing with all her worrying."

"Who bloody cares!" someone cried out with impatience. "Make your wager and stop your stalling, Philip!"

The young gentleman ignored the remark as he tapped the edge of his cards on the surface of the table. "I find women fascinating. Have you ever heard their turn of phrase? How they can make the smallest, insignificant thing fascinating?"

A drunken, rude voice interrupted him. "A woman's mouth is best used for one purpose, and it's not for speaking!"

Derisive laughter erupted around the table, but Philip continued, though with blushes. "They are so different from us! Exquisite in their loveliness. Intoxicating in their allure. I'm often surprised by how--"

"Ha!" one of the older men at the table scoffed. "When did you have a chance to inspect the fairer sex?"

"I only mean--"

"If you had, you'd know they're about as ruthless, if not more so, than the most brutal ruffian down on the docks. Beneath those lovely exteriors, those cunts all have teeth and claws that would wound deeper than any sabre."

"Your acquaintances perhaps, Milton," Philip muttered, wounded. "I speak of the high-born lady. Gentle, refined and sweet. I believe we men could never bear some of their burdens with half their grace. I would venture to say their sex is far superior to ours."

Gathered around the card table where Philip sat and opined were both card players and spectators. These were all men of wealth, privilege, and pedigree. Yet, their attention was not altogether on the speaker. Instead, their eyes darted towards the large, silent man seated across from Philip.

By his dress - tailored black evening attire, crisp white shirt, high collar, cravat- Lord Davenport was like all the rest. What made the others watch him with such interest and deference was his quiet authority. By his intensity and measured movements, he seemed as if he was always weighing something important no one else could detect. Every time he drew breath, the air crackled with coiled energy.

While the others jeered, Lord Davenport remained composed. He puffed lightly on a fresh cigar as he studied his hand of cards. Then he flicked his deep-set blue eyes up till the tip of his long lashes touched his heavy hooded brows as he met Philip's earnest look. Ribbons of silvery-blue smoke rose around his striking, chiselled face. That striking but impassive face turned a bit to spit out a piece of bitter tobacco leaf. With a slight jerk of his chin, he flicked away a card before picking up another. Light flashed off the surface of his pinky ring with each movement. When he spoke, his voice was soft but deep, like rumbling thunder.

"'There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,'" he quoted. "By what measure did you arrive at your conclusion, cousin? Which lady do you or I know suffers burdens greater than having her credit limited?"