My own marriage had been untainted by parental depredations; my wife’s darling mother hated me so much that she had written the Prince Regent for a special permission to prevent her daughter from taking my name. Her dislike was entirely unjustified, as I was quite the ideal husband, unless one was so crass as to take issue with my state of financial disarray or my constant drunkenness or my habitual adultery.
But my trespasses were entirely forgivable, given my wife’s coldness, her obnoxious rectitude, and her inability to sate my lusts. Our attraction had been based, on both sides, upon a myth of romantic transformation; she thought she could redeem me, and I believed I could corrupt her. We’d both been wrong.
Olivia’s steward guided me through the entryway, down a short hallway, through a well-appointed library, and to a set of glass doors that opened upon a lush interior courtyard. Though the little garden was probably shaded for much of the day, the area was evenly carpeted by healthy grass, and the cascading flower beds along the perimeter of the space were remarkable for the color and variety of their foliage. Many of these plants, I knew, were quite fragile and challenging to cultivate, and I added a master gardener to my mental tally of the house staff.
At the center of this idyllic space sat a small wicker table and two chairs; furniture light enough that it would not bruise the sod. A lady’s silk scarf lay on the grass, and a book rested on the table, open, with the spine up. I smiled; Olivia had been sitting out here when I arrived, and she fled inside when she’d heard I was at the door. I wondered if she had gone to put her face together, or if she’d merely left so I’d have to wait for her to receive me.
I picked up the novel. It was a recent bestseller, beloved by women; one I hadn’t had the time or inclination to read. It was called Pride and Prejudice, and the author was named only as “a lady.” I flipped to the front, intentionally losing Olivia’s place in it, and I perused the first page:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
“Perhaps he’ll take mine,” I said to myself.
“Do you need something, sir?” asked the steward, who had overheard me.
“I was only reading.” I pitched the novel onto the ground. “Where is Olivia?”
“She’ll be out presently. I’m sure she apologizes most sincerely for the delay. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“I’ll take whisky, if you’ve got any,” I said.
But she left me sitting for nearly half an hour, long enough for me to drink three generous glasses of well-aged Scotch and start on a fourth. At some point, I retrieved Pride and Prejudice from the grass and leafed through it. Olivia appeared, eventually, looking quite radiant, though, at the age of twenty-six, the flower of her youth had long since withered.
“Lord Byron,” she said. “It has been some time since I’ve seen you.”
I rose from my seat. “Nine years.”
“I apologize for making you wait. It was quite unavoidable,” she said without actually seeming the least bit sorry.
“It’s quite all right. I’ve found something to read.”
“Oh, that.” She took the book from me, gently brushed the dirt from its cover, and set it back on the little table. “It’s been very popular in London, though I suppose it’s hardly the equal of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.”
“You didn’t write it, did you?”
“Hardly. Though the author is a friend of my family. A sweet, sweet woman. What is your expert’s literary assessment of its merits?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that woman that I couldn’t fix in ten minutes, with my prick,” I said. I suppose I’d meant to shock or offend her, for I was annoyed by the long delay, though her courtyard was a nice enough place to sit.
She merely laughed at me. “Perhaps your reparative efforts would be better directed toward Lady Byron.”
“I fear, alas, that what’s broken in that one is hopelessly unsalvageable.”
Olivia leaned toward me and touched my knee with her fingertips. “I’ve heard rumors about you. Are they true?”
I pulled myself away from her touch and, piqued, swept the book back onto the ground with my forearm. “Some of them are. And the rest of them might as well be, once they’ve been whispered in every ear in London. What drugs and promiscuity and rampant spending could never do to me, marriage has done in but a single year. I am ruined. I’m fleeing England, forever.”
“So why have you come here?”
“I am writing a memoir; my account of the Cambridge murders. I’d like to ask about your recollection of those events.”
“I don’t really know much,” she said. “I’d heard you were arrested, but then you weren’t anymore. And then Mr. Knifing announced the killer was that horrible carpenter, and you left Cambridge shortly after. I thought you’d come calling, after Mr. Sedgewyck’s death. Though I grieved for him, I was, in a way, relieved that I didn’t have to marry him.”
“He probably would have made a fine husband,” I said. “I’m sure he would have tenderly loved your family’s money.”
“How romantic of him.”
“He wasn’t a romantic. I’m a romantic. He was a prudent man. I warned you about prudent men.”
“And I have approached such sensible suitors with caution ever since.”
“Sedgewyck’s death was perhaps the least tragic of the Cambridge killings, though I had little affection for Professor Pendleton or Fielding Dingle.”
“His manner of dealing was heartless and cowardly. But you left me, as well,” said Olivia.
“I did not. You spurned me, and chose Mr. Sedgewyck.”
“You said you loved me, but you never returned, not even to say good-bye.”
“I was arrested.”
“Only briefly.”
“Is that why you never married? Out of devotion to me?”
“Surely you’ve had many proposals.” I knew a number of eligible barons and at least one marquess who would have thought Olivia’s countenance entirely acceptable, despite her age, and they’d have found her wealth quite compelling.
“The last time I saw you, you presented me with a dichotomy, a choice between the passionate lover and the prudent suitor. You and Mr. Sedgewyck gave me an object lesson in the failings of both sorts of men. I do not like being viewed the way Sedgewyck saw me; as a chattel—as a piece in some game. But you gave me little reason to hold out hope for romantic love, Lord Byron. You turned so cold, so fast, and you abandoned me.”
I didn’t need to tell her that I was abandoned first. I said, “I was never dishonest about what I had to offer you.”
“You’d carry your love in your insect heart, to cliffsides and mountains and minarets. I remember what you offered. You weren’t dishonest. You were only selfish. I have never married because I require an unselfish man, and I have yet to meet one.”
“You must be very lonely.”
Her brow knit: “Men of inadequate character make for poor company. I am quite content with my business and my books.”
“But surely you desire a legacy. Who will look after all you’ve built, when you’re gone?”
She shrugged indifferently. “I’ve a handful of nieces and nephews, and some cousins. When the time comes, I may divide it among them, or bequeath it all to the worthiest. Or I might birth a bastard. No law exists anymore that would prevent such a child from inheriting. The world is changing, Lord Byron. Thirty years ago, a lady could not have survived on her own, but men have lately become quite superfluous.”
What I was thinking was that, if she no longer sought a prudent husband, she no longer had any reason to guard her chastity. “We remain necessary in at least one respect,” I said, and I rose from my seat and move
d toward her.
“You’d be quite surprised,” she said. “There are techniques. And devices.”
“I’ll wager a thousand pounds that my techniques are better than your techniques.”
“You haven’t got a thousand pounds, Lord Byron.”
But when I reached out to touch her face, she let me. “I rather doubt you’re entirely satisfied by your solitary life,” I said, brushing my fingers through her hair.
She smiled. “Are you offering to fix what’s wrong with me?”
“I wouldn’t want to leave again, without giving you a proper good-bye.”
“Very well,” she said. “I’ve no other plans for the next ten minutes.”
She stood with a smooth motion, and I drew my hand back. The steward held the glass door open as she walked back into her house. Her stride was long and supple and imperious.
I finished my drink, and then I followed her.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my agent, Victoria Skurnick, and foreign rights manager, Elizabeth Fisher at Levine Greenberg Rostan, for their continued dedication to the Buck Schatz books, and for helping me to sell this jarring deviation from what was expected of me. I’d also like to thank Lucy Stille at APA for selling the film rights to Don’t Ever Get Old.
Thanks to my editor, Marcia Markland, her assistant, Quressa Robinson, publicity manager Hector DeJean, Thomas Dunne Books publisher Thomas Dunne, Minotaur Books publisher Andrew Martin, and associate editor Kat Brzozowski.
I’d also like to thank my mom, Elaine Friedman, my brother Jonathan Friedman, Grandma Margaret Friedman, and Bubbi Goldie Burson for all their love and support. Thanks as well to Rachel Friedman, baby Hannah Dove Friedman, Sheila and Steve Burkholz, Carole Burson, Skip and Susan Rossen, Stephen and Beth Rossen, David and Lindsey Rossen, Martin and Jenny Rossen, Scott Burkholz, Rachel Burkholz, Claire and Paul Putterman, Andrew Putterman and Matthew Putterman.
About the Author
DANIEL FRIEDMAN is a graduate of the University of Maryland and NYU School of Law. He lives in New York City. His first novel, Don’t Ever Get Old, was nominated for an Edgar Award and won a Macavity Award for Best First Novel. His second, Don’t Ever Look Back, was also published to great acclaim by Thomas Dunne Books. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Daniel Friedman
Don’t Ever Look Back
Don’t Ever Get Old
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Daniel Friedman
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Thomas Dunne Book for Minotaur Books.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
RIOT MOST UNCOUTH. Copyright © 2015 by Daniel Friedman. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Jacket design and photo-illustration by John Hamilton Design
Jacket photographs: bear © iStock.com/S-Eyerkaufer; Byron’s body © DEA/Studio AB/Getty Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Friedman, Daniel, 1981-
Riot most uncouth: a Lord Byron mystery / Daniel Friedman. — First edition.
pages; cm
ISBN 978-1-250-02759-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02758-0 (e-book)
1. Private investigators—England—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Cambridge (England)—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.R5566R56 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015033767
e-ISBN 978-1-250-02758-0
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First Edition: December 2015