Subject: D&D Cartoon On-Line Fan Club Newsletter Spring 1999 -- Part 5!
Date: Sun, 21 Feb 1999 14:55:58 EST


Elseworlds: The Dollmaker Part IV
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.

      'What an utter waste of a perfectly good evening,' Eric thought to
himself as his carriage
rolled through the East End.  'I'm sure Lady Silverbridge has been invited to
any number of balls, but instead she is determined to tour the stews'. He
looked at the young lady seated across from him, but she was staring intently
out the window.
     Hank was seating next to him, since propriety dictated that neither of
the young men could sit next to Diana. It occurred to Eric that it was
ridiculous to maintain that tiny bit of decorum, for if it ever got out that
Lady Silverbridge had gone riding with two men in a closed carriage in the
dead of night, her reputation would be in tatters.
     Unlike Diana, Eric only looked out of the window from time to time in
order to check
their location, but did not spend any more time than necessary studying the
streets. Hank had initially been as enthralled with the view as Diana, but
sometime after they had passed Dorset Street, he had turned from the window
and had not looked out again. Even in the dim light of the carriage Eric could
see that Hank had lost a great deal of colour.
     The Viscount's pallor notwithstanding, Eric found that an hour spent
riding through the
slums was too much to be borne. It would take nearly another hour to return to
Park Lane, and he had no desire to prolong it. He was about to suggest that
they consider returning, but Hank spoke first--
     "I wouldn't have thought that you were the sort to be entertained by the
suffering of
others, Lady Silverbridge."
     Eric gaped at him. Such a statement was beyond the pale for anyone, and a
complete
shock coming from a young man who up until then had been everything agreeable
and diffident.
     Diana turned from the window and fixed her gaze on Hank. "You object to
this tour?"
     "It's a poor form of amusement. I think it's cruel in some ways."
     "Now see here, Rayner," Eric interrupted. "The very Pinkest of the Pinks
take tours of the stews. Some of them even tour St. Bethlehem's. You've got no
call to cut Lady Silverbridge just because she wanted to see what the fuss was
about. One would think--"
     "Please, Lord Blackmoor," Diana said softly but firmly. "While it is very
gallant of you to
rush to my defence, I'll not be the cause of a quarrel between you two. I'm
perfectly able to
address Lord Rayner myself." She turned her dark eyes back on Hank. "Is there
something in my actions or countenance that suggests I am amused, my lord?"
     "No," Hank admitted.
     "No," Diana repeated. "I do not find it amusing by any means.
Fascinating, perhaps. I've
read about such poverty, and I know we lived in the midst of it in India, but
Papa would never
allow me to go into the heart of Cairo. I wanted to see for myself if what
people wrote of
London's poor was exaggerated."
     "My apologies, Lady Silverbridge," Hank said, and Diana nodded her
acceptance. He was still uneasy with the notion that people would want to
observe the misfortunes of others in the same manner one watched caged
animals, but was relieved to find that Diana's interest was intellectual
rather than the desire for a new lark. "How *does* it compare with what you've
read, Lady Silverbridge?" he asked, curious in spite of himself.
     "I suppose the author was fairly accurate, but he neglected to mention
that so many of the poor were women or that more of them are children. It's
quite shocking, don't you think?"
     "I think it's down-heartening," Hank replied, looking out the window.
"And very sad."
      'And endlessly boring,' Eric thought, although he knew he couldn't say
so out loud. He
found it extremely irritating that despite the insult Hank had delivered,
Diana was quite willing to forgive him and go on speaking as though nothing
untoward had happened. He was secretly glad that neither of them had asked him
was he thought of the slums, for he would have to admit that he'd not thought
of them at all, except to take precautions that none of the riff-raff would
approach his carriage.
     Listening to Hank's tone, one could almost take him for a reformer who
wished the
monarchy and nobility torn down.   'But then he is an American,' Eric reminded
himself.  It
probably has something to do with the way he was raised. 'Devil take it, he's
going to make a cake of himself--and me--if he starts spouting his fustian
while I'm trying to introduce him to ladies and gentlemen. He hasn't even the
sense to refrain from discussing such things with ladies!'
     As he turned half an ear back to the conversation, however, Eric
reluctantly admitted that
Diana didn't seem put off by the discussion of such unpleasant things. She was
eagerly asked Hank about a hard winter in New Hampshire when everyone in his
town found themselves as destitute as any street arab.
     Eric began to wish that he hadn't agreed to be the person to show Hank
around London.
Initially, he'd only made the offer because the Duke had seemed so pleased to
hear him inviting Hank to join him at Tattersall's and Eric wanted a little
more of that approval. He got
it--MacArran had praised him greatly for taking "the American" under his wing.
Eric knew that to abandon Hank now would lead to endless lectures and scorn
from his grandfather.
     Besides, Eric conceded, for the most part Hank was actually fairly good
company. The
way he looked to Eric for guidance much of the time was extremely flattering.
What's more, Hank was honest in his admiration or disapproval of the world
around him, and Eric could always be certain that a compliment from him was
genuine. That was more than could be said for the earwigs and coxcombs he
normally surrounded himself with. Eric knew that it infuriated his grandfather
no end to have him constantly associating with swells of little consequence
and less honour. The Duke would constantly tell Eric that the back-biters only
wanted a share of his money and the chance to move into Society and that all
their praise and flattery was a means to that end.
     Eric never bothered to inform His Grace that he was well-aware that the
flattery was
merely Spanish coin and they would leave him in the dust should his pockets
suddenly turn up empty. He didn't much like that freebooters that flocked
around him and found some of their activities too smoky by half. But they were
always deferential and would accept with a smile the most cutting insult Eric
could offer. All he had to do for their constant admiration was spend his
money freely.
     As for using him as a stepping-stone into Society--Eric had no intention
of ever allowing
them to do that. He never extended them an invitation to either Kelthorne Hall
or any of the clubs on St. James. When with people of quality he never
acknowledged them and when with them, he never went anywhere they might meet
up with people of quality. He was certain the back-biters despised him for
such treatment, although none of them could allow their feelings to show. He
loathed them for their falseness and baseness, but spending a few pounds here
and there and being praised to the sky as a result was far easier than trying
to win his grandfather's respect. For years, he had tried in every way he
could, but always, *always* fell far short of his father's flawless character.
     "Eric?" Hank's voice jolted him from his reverie.
     "I beg pardon. I was wool-gathering. You were saying?"
     "We were wondering, my lord," Diana said. "What would best be done to
ease the worst
of this poverty. Have you any suggestions?"
     Eric blinked in surprise. When had the conversation taken this turn?
Recovering, he
managed to say-- "There are many charities that see to such things. I'm sure
Lady Wylde or Lady Ravenwood would know of them."
     Diana seemed content enough with that answer, but Hank looked
disappointed. "Of
course," was all he said.
     Eric was infuriated. This silent disapproval was something he had to
endure from his
grandfather, but be damned if he was going to take it from a strait-laced,
countrified colonial.
"Before your spirits are depressed any further, Rayner," he said coolly.
"Perhaps we should return to Park Lane."
     The words were polite enough, but the tone left Hank wondering how had
irritated his
temperamental new friend. "Certainly, Eric, if you think that's best," he
replied in a similar tone.
     "Lady Silverbridge?" Eric turned to Diana.
     Ordinarily, Diana would have requested they tour a bit longer, but she
could sense the
tension radiating from the two young men. "By all means, my lord. I am quite
satisfied."
     Eric relaxed visibly at her words. "I'm glad to hear it, my lady."
Turning slightly, he
opened the small trap to speak to his coachman. "Back to the lady's home on
Park Lane, Tam."
     "Aye, milord.  Tis shorter through Covent Garden. D'ye want me t'go that
way?"
     "Bye all means, Tam. The shorter the better."

     Vengrave watched the boy sneak into a tiny shack and emerge with a rag
clenched in his hand. Neither the rag nor the shack meant anything to
Vengrave, but he knew that the boy was heading back to his friends with his
prize. A quick glance told him that his coach was directly across from him,
the door partially opened for an easier entrance.
     With each step the boy took towards him, Vengrave's fingers twitched more
violently.
What portrait would this one make? He was too healthy and vibrant to pose as
the victim of a wasting disease--as so many of his recent portraits had been.
No, a quick, violent death would better suit this brash Irish lad. Vengrave
had heard bits and pieces of his conversation and knew the boy was Irish. That
he was brash as well was demonstrated by the swaggering stride, the cocky tilt
to his head and his stubborn chin that jutted out slightly.
     He would make a fine portrait indeed, and he was merely two steps away...
     ...and now one...

     Silence reigned in the MacArran coach.
     Any attempt by Hank or Diana to make conversation was squelched by Eric;
Diana's
politely and Hank's ruthlessly. Hank's tone had grown more bewildered and
apologetic until it took every ounce of Eric's courtesy to keep from calling
him out.
     Hank had finally subsided and was gazing out the window. From London
Bridge to the
merging of Fleet Street and the Strand, no one spoke a word.
     Then Eric heard a sharp intake of breath from Hank and turned, annoyed,
to ask what was the matter. He saw Hank all but pressed against the coach
window, craning his neck in an attempt to see something far down the street.
     "What is it?" Diana asked, peering out her own window.
     "Stop the coach!" Hank said to Eric.
     "Stop the coach?" Eric was incredulous. "We're in the middle of Covent
Garden."
     "I think there's someone in trouble! We have to stop!"
     "Certainly not."
     The next instant, Hank had the small trap door open. "Stop at once!" he
commanded in a tone that could have come from the king himself.
     It certainly worked on Tam. He reined in the horses immediately, but Hank
was out even
before the coach had stopped rolling.
     "The man is a lunatic," was all Eric could say.

     Vengrave never expected the little Paddy to give him such trouble. Most
of his models got into his coach willingly and those that did not were too
weak for their struggles to have any effect. The Irish street rat fought like
a demon and cursed at the top of his lungs. When he tried to clamp his hand
over the squalling mouth, the boy bit him like a rabid terrier.
     "Lemme go, y'bracket-faced, gin-soaked Sassenach! I'll be cuttin' off yer
head and makin' a days work o'yer neck, I will! I'll cut out yer eyes and spit
in th'sockets, y'bleedin' gull-catcher!"
     Just as Vengrave was reflecting that it was lucky that no one in Covent
Garden would pay much attention to such a scene, he heard footsteps pounding
towards them.
     "What are you doing?! Let him go!"
     Vengrave looked, thinking he'd have to bully the boy's two friends into
handing his model
over. He did not expect to see a youth whose fine clothing marked him as a
young blood of the ton.  The boy, realizing he had an ally, yelled all the
louder. "He's a bleedin' divil, he is! I was takin' me ma's needlework bag
t'me sister when he nabbed me! I'll no go wi'him! Me sister's waitin' on me!"
     The youth's face darkened and he gripped Vengrave's wrist. "Leave him be.
He doesn't
want to go with you!"
     Abruptly, Vengrave shoved the boy towards the youth so hard that they
both fell onto the
cobblestones. He stepped into his coach and ordered his driver to move along.
     "Are you all right?" Hank asked when he'd regained his breath. The boy
had landed square on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
     "Aye," the boy replied, getting to his feet. He turned and shook his fist
at the disappearing coach. "May th'divil swallow ye sideways, y'bleedin'
Sassenach! May th'divil take y'by th'heels and shake ye! May ye fester in yer
grave like th'demon y'are! May--" he broke off abruptly when he heard someone
chuckling behind him.
     "If any one of those come true, I'll say he's been properly punished."
     The boy frowned. "Faith, but ye talk strange fer a Sassen--fer an
Englishman."
     "That's probably because I'm American."
     The boy lifted his chin proudly. "I'm pure Irish, I am. Me name's Bobby
O'Brien."
     The boy's cocky manner reminded Hank of friends back home and he couldn't
help
smiling. "I'm Hank Grayson."
     "Truly yer from Americay?" Bobby's eyes were keen with interest.
     "I am."
     "Are y'homesick here? I pine t'see Ireland again.  Tis the grandest place
in th'world."
     "You've never seen America," Hank replied. "It's the best place in the
world."
     "Ah, but ye've neva seen Ireland," Bobby returned and they grinned at one
another.
     A flash of colour caught Hank's eye, something out of place on the filthy
London streets.
"You mentioned your mother's needlework bag," Hank nodded towards the bright
cloth.
     "St. Patrick's eyes!" Bobby scrambled to snatch the bag from the mud.
"T'would be awful
t'lose this."
     "Is your mother very fond of it?"
     "Aye, she was," Bobby looked up at him with trust in his eyes. "She and
Da were killed
jus' months after we came t'London."
     "I'm sorry, Bobby," Hank said quietly. "I know what that's like. My
parents were killed in
a fire six months ago. You're lucky to have a sister, though. I often wished I
had a brother or
sister."
     Bobby's eyes widened. "Faith, how did y'know I had a sister?" he asked in
amazement,
having forgotten all the things he'd shouted in his struggle.
     "You told me so yourself. Hadn't you better get back to her? She's
probably worried."
     "Bobby!" an anxious voice called.
     Bobby grinned at Hank again. "Me sister's a seelie, she is! Speak o'her
or say her name an' she appears--quick as any will o'the wisp."
     Hank couldn't help laughing, but his humour disappeared when two more
people rushed
up to them, both pale with concern.
     "Faith, Bobby, y'had me scared out o'me wits! Preston and I heard a great
row coming
from this way and I was scared to death it might have been you."
     "It was," Bobby replied proudly, then proceeded to explain that a
"bleedin' Sassenach" had tried to drag him off.
     He never got to finish his tale, because halfway through, his sister
snatched him up in a
desperate hug. "Saints above, acushla, I have to take you away from this
wretched city!"
     "Faith, Sheila, that divil wouldn't'a got me. And Hank was there t'help
me. The viper's
lucky he got away when he did."
     "Hank?" Sheila frowned, then remembered the young man her brother had
been talking to.
     "Hank Grayson, Miss O'Brien." Hank smiled involuntarily at the pretty
face before him.
The shawl that half-covered her head was old and faded, but it did nothing to
detract from the
bright red curls which tumbled about her face. Hank knew at once that the
young woman was not one which his aunt and uncle would include in their circle
of friends, but that made little difference to him. He was taken with the
smattering of pale freckled scattering over the ivory skin, with the small
straight nose that had just the slightest tilt at the tip, and especially with
the large, deep blue eyes.
     Sheila recognized the admiration in the young stranger's sky-blue eyes,
but for once she
was pleased rather than worried. Her instincts told her that she had nothing
to fear from this
handsome young man, and not merely because he had just rescued her brother.
     "He's from Americay, Sheila," Bobby informed his sister, jolting her back
to the present.
"Sure, and I should've known that. What Englishman would eva stop t'help a
soul.  Specially in Coven' Garden."
      Sheila looked at Bobby then back at Hank. "You're American?"
     "That's right. I've only been in London for a few weeks, actually."
Hank's smile widened.
"And you're Irish. I would have known even if Bobby hadn't told me."
     Preston watched Sheila converse with Bobby's rescuer with much
bewilderment and
growing concern. American he might be, but did Sheila not see the fine clothes
that marked him as a member of the upper classes? He didn't act like Society,
though. When he was introduced to Preston, Hank held out his hand to shake. In
all his life, no one had ever offered to shake hands with Preston before and
here the Grayson fellow was acting as though it was the most natural thing in
the world. Without realizing it, Preston stood a little straighter and held
his head a bit higher.

     "That deuced shatterbrain!" Eric grumbled. "Where the devil is he?"
     "You don't suppose he's come to any harm, do you?" Diana asked, looking
anxiously out the window for a glimpse of the Viscount.
     "It he does, it's no more than he deserves."
     "Surely you don't mean that, Lord Blackmoor."
     "By rights we should be on our way. It would serve the fool right to be
stranded in Covent
Garden."
     "Can't you have you coachman drive about so we might see him?"
     "Go chasing about Covent Garden looking for a fool? No, thank you all the
same."
     Diana tilted her head to one side as she studied the Marquis. She
suspected that his bark was much worse than his bite, although his bark was
fairly nasty in itself. She knew that manners and proprieties had been bred
into him since birth and decided that she'd have to take a gamble. "I can't in
good conscience sit here when Viscount Rayner may be in danger." With those
words she opened the door and hopped out of the coach so quickly that Eric
didn't have the chance to protest.
      'Good Lord! I've been driving about London with a lunatic and a
madwoman!' Eric swore
mightily, and paused only long enough to pick up Hank's tall beaver hat before
leaving the coach.  "Wait here, Tam," he ordered.
     "Aye, milord." There was laughter in the Scot's voice, but Eric was too
distracted to
notice.
     Eric soon managed to overtake Diana and it was all he could do not to
grab her arms and shake some sense into her. "Have you lost your wits
completely?" he hissed.
     She favoured him with a brilliant smile. "Good evening, Lord Blackmoor.
How lovely to
see you again." She sounded as though they were at a grand ball rather than
standing on a filthy street.
     "You *have* lost your wits!" Eric groaned. "Have you no thought whatever
for your
reputation?"
     "Apparently not," Diana replied lightly, then continued walking up the
street.
     "Damnation!" Eric hurried after her, shrugging off his greatcoat as he
went. "Here," he
said when he caught up with her again. "Put this on, for God's sake," he
thrust the greatcoat at her. "If anyone recognizes you, Lady Wylde will have
to pack you off to the country at once."
     Diana slipped the greatcoat on and buttoned it--no easy feat when the
sleeves were several inches longer than her arms. Although she was taller than
most ladies, the hem of the coat still touched the ground, which fortunately
meant that not an inch of her dress could be seen.
     "This will have to do," Eric sounded resigned. He clapped Hank's hat on
her head and
pulled the brim low over her forehead.
     Diana couldn't help herself. She burst into giggles.
     "There is absolutely nothing funny about this situation," Eric sounded
insulted.
     With great difficulty, Diana composed herself. "You are right, of course.
We must find
Lord Rayner."
     "And the sooner the better," Eric agreed, taking her arm as they started
up Drury Lane.
Eric thanked the stars for the late hour. Earlier in the evening, Society
would have been
wandering up and down the Lane, attending one of the offerings of the many
theatres.
     Finally, they spotted Hank, and Eric was immediately incensed.   'What is
the imbecilic
bumpkin about? Passing the time of day with two guttersnipes and some chit?'
Angrily, he strode toward the quartet. Diana had to run to keep up. "Rayner!"
he said in a sharp voice. "What do you mean by making the coach wait while you
stand about out here?"
     Sheila's heart nearly stopped when she heard that voice. Mr. Grayson was
an acquaintance of the Marquis! She took another look at Hank and saw the fine
clothes she hadn't noticed before.  'And what if his lordship should see me?
Blessed Virgin, I'll be turned out sure as I'm standing here!'  She caught her
brother's hand and began edging away.
     "I'm sorry, Eric. But the boy--Bobby--" Hank nodded towards them and
Sheila froze. "He
was in trouble. Then his sister and his friend arrived and we got to talking.
Where is--" he broke off when a bizarre figure behind Eric waved at him. He
stared hard, seeing the hat was his own, and then realized who was wearing it.
"Oh."
     "Shall we be on our way?" Eric asked, although it was more of a command
than a
suggestion.
     "Of course, Eric. It was nice to meet you, Preston," he shook hands with
the young
apprentice again. Messing Bobby's hair, he grinned, "Don't give you sister too
much trouble,
now."
     "I won't," Bobby returned the grin.
     Sheila was trying to shrink back into the shadows, but Hank caught her
eye. He gave her a warm smile. "It was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss
O'Brien."
     "Thank you, sir. My thanks again for saving my brother."
     "I was happy to help, although Bobby probably would have escape on his
own. He's a real fighter."
     "Still, t'isn't anyone that would have stepped in." Uncertainly, she held
out her hand.
     Eric was torn between amusement and amazement when Hank actually took
Sheila's hand.  For a moment it looked as though he was actually going to
raise it to his lips. They gazed into each other's eyes until Eric said-- "The
coach is waiting."
     "I'll be right there," Hank replied quietly, never taking his eyes from
Sheila's face. "Good
night, Miss O'Brien."
     "Good night to you, sir."

     "I'm glad Lady Silverbridge enjoyed her evening," Hank said as the
MacArran coach
pulled away from the Countess of Wylde's home.
     A corner of Eric's mouth quirked upwards. "'Enjoyed' would be a gross
understatement,"
he replied, as he recalled Diana's excited conversation during the ride back.
"One hopes she
manages to restrain herself, otherwise all our work at protecting her
reputation will be for
naught."
     "I don't think she would tell anyone about it."
     "No doubt she feels you are responsible for turning a simple tour into a
great adventure.
Quite rightfully, too."
     "I am sorry, Eric. But the boy was in trouble, I couldn't just--"
     Eric waved the apology away. "You explained your actions to me on Drury
Lane and
again in the coach. There's no need to go through all that again. Let us put
the matter to rest."
     "I'd appreciate that."
     "Done," Eric said briskly, they he flashed one of his rare grins. "And
what of the street rat's sister? You seemed rather taken with her."
     Hank turned a dull red. "His name is Bobby, and I though we weren't going
to talk about
it anymore."
     "About you jumping from the coach like a candidate from Bedlam, no. But
this is a
different matter entirely."
     "Is it?" Hank looked a bit uncomfortable.
     "Indeed. I vow, she didn't seem like a common bit o' muslin. No doubt she
views herself as rather respectable."
     Hank frowned. "Respectable? Why wouldn't she be?"
     "Then what, pray tell, was she doing on Drury Lane in the dead of night?"
     "I don't know. But then, Lady Silverbridge was on Drury Lane in the
middle of the night."
     Eric was stunned into speechlessness for several long minutes. When he
did speak, his
voice was strangled. "Never say you are actually comparing Lady Silverbridge
to the likes of that Irish chit."
     "The 'likes of?' What do you mean by that? And she not a chit--her name
is Sheila."
     Eric didn't press the subject any further. He was taken aback by the
amount of anger in
Hank's tone and face. He sighed inwardly, 'Americans. I wonder if the entire
nation is so
bloody-minded.'

     Sheila made her way up to the top floor of Kelthorne Hall and crept into
the small room
she shared with three other housemaids. Silently, she slipped into her night
rail and laid down on her narrow bed. Normally, she was exhausted from the
day's work and fell into a deep sleep immediately, but tonight she was wide
awake. The prospect of Bobby being employed at the hall, the scene with the
Costers, and the horror of Bobby's near-abduction all paled before the image
of a handsome young American.
     Hank Grayson. Sheila thought it was a fine, noble-sounding name that
suited him
perfectly. He was obviously a friend of the Marquis of Blackmoor, yet he'd
stood talking to her, Bobby and Preston as though *they* were of the Fancy.
His clothes and friends marked him as someone as wealth and consequences, but
he didn't seem aware of it and acted as though he was no better than she was.
      'And what lovely eyes!' Not the dark Kerry blue of herself and her
brother, but a pale
blue--almost silvery in the dim light of Drury Lane. And when he looked at
her...
     Sheila snuggled under her covers with a heartfelt sigh. Tomorrow she
would recall the
vast social distance between her and Hank Grayson. Tomorrow she would go back
to being
practical and sensible. Tonight was for dreaming.

     Vengrave had his coachman turn back onto Drury Lane and stop a short
distance from the group of young people. He watched them until everyone went
their separate ways, and finally reached his decision. He had never before
abandoned his pursuit of a model--always the pursuit had ended in the creation
of a new work of art, but he now decided that the Irish street rat would not
be the best choice. He was grateful to the little Paddy, though, for the boy
had introduced him to someone who would likely make a masterpiece better than
any he'd ever imagined.
     The risk was immeasurable, this was not someone that could disappear
unnoticed.
Vengrave soon reached the conclusion, however, that any risk was worth it. In
his mind's eye, he could already picture his finished work. He would call it
"Death of an Avenging Angel."

End Part IV