D&D Cartoon On-Line Fan Club Newsletter #8, Part 3
September/October 1998

D&D ELSEWORLDS FAN FICTION CORNER!

Ready for Part 2 of Victoria Bishop’s “The Dollmaker”, Part 5 of Maureen
O’Brien’s X-Files crossover “Players”, and Part 6 of “Henry Hood”?  Well, then
whattya waitin’ for?  Read on and enjoy! :)

Elseworlds: The Dollmaker Part II
Victoria Bishop

These characters are based on those of the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon, owned
by TSR,
Marvel, etc.  Don't bother suing--I have no money. Rated: PG-13

Note: I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but there are some
facts I had to ignore for the sake of the story and some I probably didn't
even notice. Please put down any such inaccuracies to artistic license. :)

     Eric Stephen Montgomery, the Marquis of Blackmoor, stifled a sigh as
Trevor, his valet, gathered his discarded riding clothes and left his
bedchamber. He had managed to avoid his grandfather--by one means or
another--for the past two days, but his luck had finally run out. The Duke of
MacArran made it quite clear that if Eric did not meet him in the study for
luncheon, there would be dire consequences.
     That's why Eric was descending the stairs to the study dressed in his
best coat and waistcoat and wearing the sternest cravat Trevor could fashion.
He had no intention on giving his grandfather any opportunity to call him a
dandy or a fop--which is what he had been accused of the last time the two had
spoken. He unconsciously tugged at his cuffs to make certain they were
straight before walking into the study.
     The Duke was waiting for him and gave him a hard look. Eric stopped short
and gave a small bow, "Your Grace," he said simply.
     "Hmph."
     Eric straightened and stood still, unsure what to do next. Finally,
MacArran sat down at the luncheon table and motioned for Eric to do the same.
"I trust you will be able to take some time from your busy schedule of lazing
or lolloping about in order to pay some calls with me this afternoon."
     "Of course, sir. I am--as always--at your disposal."
     The Duke favoured his grandson with a dark look. Although Eric's words
were perfectly polite, his tone was sarcastic--even disdainful. "By rights,
you should have paid these calls yourself. Lady Wylde is an old friend and has
a new ward who is making her debut this season.  The Earl of Masters is
another old friend and his heir has just come to live with the Earl and
Countess of Ravenwood."
     Eric shrugged, "They are your friends, not mine."
     "They are friends of this family," MacArran bristled.
     "I have friends of my own," Eric said with another shrug. "I have been
much occupied with them."
     "Oh, I know all about your _friends_, boy," MacArran glowered. "A load of
Bond Street fribble who will flatter and fawn over anyone so long as they can
bleed him. If that person moves in Society, so much the better for them. Gull-
catchers like that will only lead you to run."
     "They'll do no such thing," Eric scowled in return. "You know nothing of
the matter."
     "Don't I? I know that you no longer attend White's or Brooke's and that
you've moved onto some of the gaming hells. How long before one of their
Captain Sharpes put you in Dun territory?"
     Eric's eyes widened, "How did you--?"
     "Have you your own Bird of Paradise, or do your vulgar friends induce you
to sample Haymarket wares?"
     "How _dare_ you!"
     "Does anyone hold your vowels? Have you been too ape-drunk to see me
these two days prior?"
     "Were you not my grandfather, I would call you out for such insults,"
Eric seethed.
     MacArran chuckled, "By all means, do not let that stop you. Pistols or
sabres?"
     Eric forced his temper to subside as he recalled that his grandfather was
an excellent shot and would easily win any duel. No doubt, the Duke felt that
winging him would do no end of good.
     "No one holds my vowels, sir," Eric said after a long silence. "I keep no
mistress, nor do I sample Haymarket wares," he voice was edged with disgust.
"I've been half-sprung tipsy, but never more than that. Does that satisfy you,
sir?"
     "For the moment," MacArran conceded. "I'll not have any grandson of mine
making a cake of himself. While I am in Town, you'll not see any of those
freebooters, is that understood?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "And while I am here, not a one of them will be allowed at Kelthorne
Hall."
     "Not one of them of ever _has_ been allowed at Kelthorne Hall, sir," Eric
replied.
     MacArran stared hard at his grandson, but spoke no more on the subject
while luncheon was served.

     "And where were you planning on taking our new lord today?" called a
voice.
     Hank and Lord Ravenwood both turned towards the stairs where Lady
Ravenwood was descending.
     "You've had him for two entire days and this whole morning," Lady
Ravenwood said. "I demand an equal share of his time."
     "I am taking him to Manton's," Ravenwood protested.
     "Fustian. Henry, my dear, you wouldn't mind learning to shoot on another
day, would you?"
     Hank frowned in bewilderment, "I already know how to shoot."
     "There!" Lady Ravenwood gave her husband a triumphant look. "He already
knows how to shoot. And I'm sure he is a remarkable shot. So, there is no need
for Manton's--be off with you!" she commanded with a regal gesture. "Henry
belongs to me today."
     Chuckling, Ravenwood made her a sweeping bow and left.
     "Now, Henry," Lady Ravenwood took Hank's arm and began walking with him
back up the stairs. "I'm aware that this afternoon may not be to your liking,
but it is something that must be done."
     "What am I to do?"
     "You are to receive calls with me."
     "Is that all?" Hank laughed. "You make it sound like a terrible chore."
     "According to my adorable rogue of a husband, it is," she smiled in
return. "But it is something that simply _must_ be done. Everyone has been
calling these last two days, anxious to met the new Viscount Rayner."
     "If you wish me to, then of course I will," Hank said simply.
     "You are the dearest boy," Lady Ravenwood gave him a light kiss on the
cheek. "Now off you go to change."
     "Again?" Hank asked, and heard her laughter as it followed him into his
rooms.
     As his new valet tied a fresh cravat on him, Hank studied himself in the
mirror. He still wasn't used to being so "dressed-up" all the time. In New
Hampshire, his clothing consisted of homespun shirts and trousers, with a
store-bought suit for Sunday best. The day after his arrival, Lord Ravenwood
took him to his tailor and suddenly Hank possessed no end of linen shirts and
stocks, silk cravats, waistcoats, cutaway coats, frock coats and boots--with
more to come, by the sound of things. His high-cut, tassled Hessians were a
source of delight, however, and he saw to it they were always kept polished to
a high shine.
     Although still homesick for New Hampshire and the people there, his
relatives in London were doing much to help him to alleviate any melancholy.
Nicknamed "the Rash and Reckless Ravenwoods" by the ton, the couple were as
free and easy with affection and laughter as they were with money. Perhaps
they _were_ flighty and had no use for serious matters, but they welcomed Hank
whole-heartedly and did everything they could to see to his happiness. So,
although their careless, feckless way surprised him from time to time, he was
more than willing to accept them.
     They had even helped him adjust to being the new Viscount Rayner--a fact
that hadn't been mentioned in any of their letters. He had yet to meet the
current Earl of Masters and after hearing him described a cranky, slightly mad
recluse, Hank thought it might be some time before any meeting occurred.
     "He never leaves his estates, Henry, my dear," Lady Ravenwood had told
him when he asked. "Perhaps we shall be invited for the Christmas Season, but
I wouldn't set my heart upon it.  Until he does, you'll have to content
yourself with Gideon and I making a fuss over you."
     As he slipped on a coat of deep blue velvet, Hank decided that was one of
the easiest tasks he'd ever been given.

     "The Earl of Ravenwood?" Eric raised an eyebrow as the carriage halted in
front of that house. "I didn't know you were well-acquainted with he and his
lady."
     "I'm not," the Duke replied. "Other than to know he was a devilish rake-
helly fellow in his youth, and his lady a complete hoyden in hers."
     "People call them the Rash and Reckless Ravenwoods.  I never thought to
see you pay them a call."
     "Nor did I," MacArran admitted. He descended from the brougham and walked
up the steps to the door of the townhouse and rapped smartly on it with his
walking stick. "However, the Earl of Masters and I went to Oxford together."
When the footman opened the door the pair stepped inside and handed the
servant their callings cards.
     "If your Grace and Your Lordship would wait a moment," the footman said
before
hurrying up the stairs.
     "Masters' heir is staying with Ravenwood. Lady Ravenwood is Masters'
niece, you know. I feel it is my duty to meet Viscount Rayner at least once."
     "I'm surprised I haven't heard of him before."
     "He's from one of the family's cadet branches--quite distant, actually.
American, I hear, and only came into his title by complete fluke, from what
I've heard."
     "American?!" Eric exclaimed in distaste. He had no time to say anything
else, however, as the footman returned.
     "If you will follow me, my lords, I will show you up."
     Removing their tall beaver hats, both men followed the footman up to the
first floor. Lady Ravenwood was standing in the centre of the of the drawing
room and when she saw the Duke, she extended her hand in greeting. "You do us
great honour, Your Grace."
     "It is an honour to see you once again, Lady Ravenwood," the Duke replied
as he bowed over her hand, kissing it lightly. "Allow me to present my
grandson, the Marquis of Blackmoor."
     While the Marquis and the Countess exchanged niceties, Hank stood back
and observed the visitors. Like himself, the Marquis was dressed in a well-
tailored waistcoat and cutaway. Unlike himself, though, the Marquis looked
perfectly at ease in his clothing. Still, Hank looked forward to the chance to
finally meet someone his own age.
     "Please allow me to present the Viscount Rayner," Lady Ravenwood was say.
"Henry, this is the Duke of MacArran and the Marquis of Blackmoor."
     At the last moment, Hank remembered _not_ to shake hands and bowed
instead. "Your Grace. Lord Blackmoor."
     "Lord Rayner," both men replied.
     "Do sit down," Lady Ravenwood requested on the introductions were
completed.
     Everyone sat and the Duke turned keen black eyes on Hank. "I understand
you are but recently come from America, Lord Rayner."
     "Yes, sir. I arrived only two days ago," came the polite reply.
     "And how do you find London so far?"
     "Noisy," Hank said before he thought.
     The Duke frowned, but Lady Ravenwood stifled a smile and Eric looked at
the "colonist" with new interest.
     Hank cleared his throat uncomfortably under the Duke's glare. "That
is...it is very
different from New Hampshire."
     "And that's where you lived before this."
     "Yes, sir. I was born and raised there."
     Eric caught a look from his grandfather that was a command to make polite
small talk with the Viscount. "Do you ride?" he asked Hank directly.
     "Not since I came to England. I used to, though, as often as I could."
     "Will you be getting your own mount or will you be jobbing it?"
     It was on the tip of Hank's tongue to ask what _jobbing_ was, but instead
he replied. "I suppose Lord and Lady Ravenwood will decide that."
     "Nonsense, my dear boy," came Lady Ravenwood's voice. "If you enjoy
riding, then by all means you should have a horse of your own. Purchase
yourself a matched pair as well, if you enjoy driving. Really, I'm surprised
Ravenwood didn't think of it before."
     Hank sat for several minutes in stunned silence. Lady Ravenwood spoke of
purchasing horses in the same way his aunt would speak of buying buttons.
     "Decide whether you want a curricle or a phaeton, Hank, dear, and I will
have
Ravenwood make a visit to our carriage-makers."
     "Ma'am, I'm not sure that's necessary," Hank said uncomfortably.
     "Have you never driven a curricle before. They are all the crack right
now. I just got mine last week." A startled look from the Duke reminded Eric
that the old man was not aware of that purchase. Before his grandfather could
remark, Eric said to Hank-- "Tattersall's has one of their best sales coming
'round this Thursday. You should go to that if you want a good mount."
     "Actually, Lord Ravenwood has to go out of Town tomorrow," Hank
explained. "So I hadn't made any such plans."
     "I can take you to Tattersall's, if you like," Eric offered.
     "There's a fair promise for you, Henry," Lady Ravenwood smile. "Lord
Blackmoor is reckoned to be a fine judge of horses."
     Eric gave her his first genuine smile of the day. "Thank you, my lady. It
is very kind of you to say so." He turned to Hank questioningly.
     "Thank you, Lord Blackmoor," Hank nodded in acceptance. "I appreciate the
offer."

     Eric was relieved that the home of Lady Wylde wasn't a great distance
from that of Count Ravenwood. This was the lecture from his grandfather
concerning his newly-purchased curricle wouldn't be able to run on too long.
The Duke surprised him, though, when they were seated in their brougham again.
"That was well done."
     Eric blinked, "Thank you, sir."
     "I admit to being surprised."
     "He seems somewhat more tolerable than I thought Americans would be,"
Eric replied simply.
     "I hope you do as well when meeting Lady Wylde's ward."
     "If she's made her debut--as you say--why have I never seen her?" Eric
frowned.
     "I hear she's a remarkably clever thing. Perhaps she moves in different
circles," MacArran said, and his tone implied what he thought of Eric's
"circles."
     Rather than dwelling unhappily on his grandfather's disapproval, Eric
chose to dwell unhappily on the prospect of meeting a young lady who was no
doubt a bluestocking.  'Lady Wylde and the old fellow are great friends, so
this will likely be a long visit. Fine for them, but I'll be forced to bandy
words with some drab little squab of a female who is totally lacking in
conversation. Or worse, she may be a missish reformer who lectures on
everything!'
     So with these depressing thoughts, Eric followed his grandfather into the
house where they were immediately admitted into the drawing room. He paid
little attention to the "my dear MacArran!" and "my dear Lady Wylde!" and
smiled politely when Lady Wylde remarked how handsome he had grown. Then,
because he could avoid it no longer, he turned towards the bluestocking for an
introduction.
     Only a lifetime of social training kept his jaw from dropping at the drab
little squab turned out to be the most exotically beautiful young women he'd
ever seen. She was dressed in the first stare of fashion, wearing a pale
yellow gown that set off her dark skin to great advantage. Her thick black
curls were swept up fashionably and tied with golden ribbons. Her eyes were
dark and sparkled with great intelligence and humour.
     "It is a great pleasure to meet you, Lord Blackmoor," the vision curtsied
gracefully.
     "I assure you, Lady Silverbridge, the pleasure is all mine," Eric replied
with a bow. As they sat down, Eric needed no prompting from his grandfather to
begin a conversation with the young lady. "Have you been in London long?"
     "Since May," Diana replied.
     "How strange that we've not met before this," Eric said. "For I'm certain
I would have remembered it."
     "So am I," Diana laughed. "For I do tend to stand out."
     "And with good reason, my lady," Eric said, in such a way that it could
only be taken as the warmest of compliments. "Do you attend many balls?"
     "I did when I first arrived, but as of late, I have been attending them
less frequently."
     "May one ask why?"
     "They've become exceedingly tiresome, I find. There's little that changes
from one to another. I've found the last few I've attended dreadfully dull."
     "You suffer from ennui, then?" Eric asked in surprise.
     "Only at balls, apparently," Diana dark eyes twinkled.
     "I hope your dislike of balls will not prevent you from attending our
masquerade," Eric smiled, knowing his grandfather would surely be inviting
both women.
     "Indeed it won't," Diana's expression brightened. "I have already planned
my costume."
     "I look forward to seeing it. And, Lady Silverbridge, should you and Lady
Wylde ever require male accompaniment to any event, I am at your service."
     "That is very good of you, sir, but I would have to better your
acquaintance before I
accepted."
     "Of course, but I'm certain Lady Wylde can vouch for my character as an
honorable gentleman."
     "I'm glad to hear it," Diana looked demure, but lips twitched with
suppressed laughter.  "But I would have to determine for myself that--unlike
balls--you would become neither tiresome nor dreadfully dull."

     "Faith, an' ther right corky brogans, Preston. How did y'come by  em?"
     "Would you believe old Kell conjured them?" Preston grinned.
     "Nay," Bobby laughed. "Not tha' old cawker."
     "Would you believe _I_ conjured them?"
     Bobby stopped admiring the boots--which were scuffed and two sizes too
large--to stare at Preston specutively. "Yer cuttin' shams, you are!" he
finally said. "If y'could conjure, you'd no be dentured to old Kell."
     "True enough," Preston's grin turned into a wry smile. "They were mine,
Bobby. Kell had a fit of kindness and bought me a new pair." He didn't mention
that Kell's kindness had been induced by gin or that his "new" boots weren't
much newer than Bobby's. "These were getting too tight for me, and I know you
were worried about what Sheila might say when she saw your ruined pair."
     "Bedad, Preston! _I_ wasn't worried," Bobby clarified. "I just didn't
want _Sheila_ t'be worryin' herself."
     "I see," Preston replied, trying to remain sober. "Well, if you didn't go
mudlarking in the Thames, your boots would last longer."
     "Don't I know it, though," Bobby sighed. "An' t'be sure I've no love f'r
strippin' bodies, but when there's no blunt t'be had at the crossings, what
else am I t'be after doin'?" He looked down at his feet again. "But I'll no be
wearin' yer brogans on the Thames, if y'don't wants me to."
     "They're your boots now, Bobby," Preston assured him. "Do what you like
with them."
     "Ah, faith but yer a right flaughholoch cove, Preston."
     Preston smiled, although he wasn't entirely sure what Bobby just called
him. The boy's speech was a strange mixture of his native Irish, Covent Garden
gutter slang and the more refined English his sister was trying to teach him.
More often than not, Preston had no idea what Bobby was saying.
     "I'm after meetin' Sheila at th'Drury Lane Theatre. D'you want t'come for
a wee visit?"
     "You don't think Sheila would mind?"
     "Faith, an' why would she? Bedad if she doesn't think yer a regular
out'n'outter. C'mon with me, then."
     "You're leaving now?"
     "Aye, 'tis best I'm early," Bobby laughed. "Faith, if I'm but a moment
late, Sheila will be afeared I got meself murdered."
     Both boys laughed as though this was a ridiculous notion, but both were
also well aware that it was a very real possibility. Life was cheap in Covent
Garden.

     Sheila walked the entire way from Park Lane to Covent Garden with a quick
step and her head down. She didn't stop walking when men called or approached
her. She knew that even the slightest eye contact would be taken as an
invitation for a quick romp in the alley.
     Only when she approached the Drury Lane Theatre did she raise her head,
seeking out a little blond ragamuffin. She smiled when she saw him, but then
frowned when she saw how torn and dirty he was. Oh, what she would give to see
him as well-dressed as the grand Marquis Blackmoor.
     Then her smile returned of its own volition as Bobby ran towards her.
However cruel life might be in Covent Garden, it hadn't had any effect on her
brother's spirits or energy. She caught him in a warm embrace. "How are you,
acushla?"
     Bobby squirmed uncomfortably and Sheila saw that Preston had accompanied
him. She gave Bobby a quick kiss, embarrassing him still further and then
released him to smile at Presto in greeting.
     "Bobby asked me if I wanted to come along," Preston explained, almost
apologetically. "I hope you don't mind."
     "Faith, and why would I?" Sheila asked. "I'm always happy to see you,
Preston." She drew both of them down on the steps--one on each side of her.
"I've brought a surprise for Bobby, but thankfully there's enough to go around
for all."
     Preston protested as Sheila lifted a cloth sack onto her lap and began to
unlace the fastenings. Bobby fingered the bag's embroidery with reverence. "
Twas Ma's," he whispered.
     "Aye, Bobby," Sheila replied softly. Then in a more cheerful tone--
"You'd not believe the doings at the Hall these past days. I'll tell you this
one first and we can enjoy it while I tell you the other." Both boys were
looking at her expectantly, so she continued. "The first thing this this
morning, two of the best kitchenmaids up and left, leaving Cook with only one.
Now Cook didna want the scullery maids to replace them, for the pastry chef
was coming in today and she wanted everything just so. She asked if any of the
housemaids would help, but they turned up their noses at kitchen work. Cook
was in _such_ a frazzle, so I flew about and did my work and then went down to
the kitchen. Faith, I thought the old woman would kiss me when I asked if she
needed help, she was that grateful. I helped Cook and the chef prepare all
sorts of sweetmeats and pastries for the grand ball. His Grace was to be
sampling them and choosin' those he wanted. But the chef is notoriously
picksome and if things look even a wee bit lopsided, he begins again. When
things were finally done to his liking, he left and Cook said I could take as
much as I liked of the left-outs." As Sheila finished her story, she opened
the sack to reveal and assortment pastries and sweets fit to tempt the
nobility.
     "Blessed St. Patrick," Bobby breathed, then asked eagerly-- "Can we be
havin' them right now?"
     "Aye, Bobby," Sheila laughed. "I thought they'd likely be eaten all at
once." Once Bobby had a lapful of treats, she held out the sack to Preston.
"Have some, lad," she prompted when she hesitated. "For there's more than
enough to go  round."
     Preston chose a pastry coated with crusty sugar, "Thank you, Sheila."
     "What's the other good thing you'll be after tellin' us?" Bobby asked
around a mouthful of strawberry tart.
     "His Grace has seen fit to raise my wages--a whole shilling each week.
Bobby, keep your mouth closed when you've food in it--there's a good lad."
     Bobby immediately chewed and swallowed. "Mary, Joseph and--"
     "Bobby!" Sheila exclaimed sternly.
     "No swearing. Aye, Sheila, I know it. But a whole nuther shilling a week!
Faith an' we'll be goin' home before Michaelmas."
     Preston stopped enjoying his treat at the idea of his friends leaving so
soon.
     "Not by Michaelmas, acushla. Perhaps after Christmas or Twelfth Night,
though." Sheila was silent for several minutes. "I've been turning it over
carefully and rather than go home early and have nothin' to our names when we
get there, we could wait until the spring when the travelling is easier and I
have a fair bit more saved."
     "Another winter here?" Bobby looked mournful.
     "I'll see you're kept comfortable," Sheila promised. "And I needn't be
after worryin' so much for you when you have such a true friend as Preston.
Did you thank him proper for your brogans?"
     Preston flushed with embarrassment while Bobby's jaw dropped. "Sure an'
Da had the right of it! Yer a seelie, you are!"
     Sheila started laughing. "I'm no such thing, Bobby."
     "But how did you know?" Preston asked.
     "I saw that Bobby had different boots on and when I looked harder, I saw
they were the same brogans you wore when I last saw you. What will you have
for them?"
     "Nothing!" Preston declared indignantly.
     "Not even another trifle?" Sheila teased, holding one out.
     "Well...I suppose," Preston laughed. "Thank you."
     "My thanks to you, Preston, for watching over my laddie," Sheila replied
quietly, making Preston redden again. "And now, sad though I am to say it, I
must start back to the Hall," she sighed, handing the bag to Bobby. "Enjoy
them, lads."
     "You'll no walk all the way back to the Hall alone!" Bobby protested.
     "Faith, and how else am I to be getting there, my lad?"
     "Not alone, you'll not. Preston and meself will be settin' you as far as
Park Lane."
     "Oh, is that a fact, now?"
     "Aye," Bobby stood up. After a moment, Preston stood as well.
     "Sure, and how often does a girl have the chance to walk out with two
fine gentlemen such as yourselves?" Sheila grinned as she linked arms with
both of them. "Very well, then, my lords. I accept your kind offer."
     Laughing, the trio set off down Drury Lane.

     From beneath the brim of a stylish beaver tophat, narrowed eyes observed
the trio that chattered happily as they walked. Fingers clenched and
unclenched beneath the folds of a voluminous black greatcoat as though anxious
to be at work.
     Although he preferred to choose orphans or outcasts as his portraits, he
was seriously considering an exception. How pleasing it would be to deal with
a portrait that possessed both spirit and intelligence. Many of the models
he'd been forced to use lately had been sad and lifeless even before he'd
killed them.
     He knew that he would have to move slowly to obtain this model, but he
was just as certain that it would be well worth the wait.

End Part II