Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake

saying, “Good afternoon, my Lord.”
    “You may call me Sir Francis,” replied the other with a growl of a laugh. “Everybody does.”
    John focused his eyes and found himself looking down into an extraordinary face the colour of a rich royal ruby, adorned by a long and large shining nose that spoke volumes of its owner’s addiction to fleshly pleasures. Above the nose were two deep-set eyes, dark as chestnuts and equally fierce in their aspect. But the lips were those of a worldly libertine, the bottom one being full and demanding, the upper scarcely visible. In his hand Sir Francis held a glass of red wine and while he scrutinised John from top to toe he sipped at it continuously.
    “You’re very finely arrayed if I may say so, sir. Who’s your tailor?”
    The Apothecary was on the point of telling him and then remembered his pose. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of him, sir. “Tis a wee fellow from Dublin. My father swears by him.”
    Sir Francis got to his feet, moving athletically for a man of his build. “Let’s have a good look at you.” He studied John’s face in the light streaming through the three windows. “Oh, it’s quite a handsome lad that the Earl of Cavan produced. It was the Earl of Cavan you said, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    John prayed silently that if such a man existed then Sir Francis would have no particular knowledge of him.
    “I don’t know much about the Irish peerage,” the other man said reassuringly. “In fact all I know about that country is that I am thinking of introducing some sort of postal system at some time in the future. A good plan, don’t you agree?”
    “Oh yes, Sir Francis,” John replied enthusiastically. “It is high time that we were organised in that regard.”
    “Um, well I’ll remember your words if ever the time comes. Now, my boy, to more serious matters. What would you like to drink?”
    “A glass of claret would go down well, thank you.”
    Sir Francis crossed to a sideboard, poured out a glass of deep-red wine from a sparkling crystal decanter, then motioned John to a seat, and returned to his own chair opposite.
    “My wife tells me that you want to interview me with regard to writing something or other in an Irish journal.”
    “That’s correct, Sir Francis. Any views you have about the postal system or anything else for that matter would be greatly appreciated.”
    “I see. Well, now is not the time. Perhaps later in the week.”
    John was just starting his torrent of effusive thanks when there were footsteps in the hall outside and then the door was flung open. Arundel stood in the entrance, swaying very slightly.
    “Ah come in, Charles. I was wondering where you had got to. Allow me to present to you the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, son of the Earl of Cavan.”
    “How dee do?” said Lord Arundel, extending a long white hand before making a perfunctory bow.
    “How do you do, my Lord?”
    John echoed his bow but made his a little deeper. It was perfectly clear from the expression on Charles Arundel’s face that he had no recollection whatsoever of their previous meeting.
    “A glass of wine, Charles? You just have time before we sit down to dine.”
    “That would be splendid, Lrancis. I slept this afternoon so I’ve recovered from this morning.”
    John shot him a glance from under his lashes. Lord Arundel was thin, indeed almost gaunt, and wore a brilliant white wig which accentuated his beau monde macquillage. He looked to the Apothecary as if he suffered from anaemia and was covering it up by wearing a white foundation and powder. His lips, which he had not carmined however, appeared bloodless and drawn, and John thought him a most unattractive specimen. He wondered what could possibly have possessed Coralie Clive to marry such a creature and could only conjecture that he must have been handsome in the days when she first knew him.
    “Cavan?” said Lord Arundel, wrinkling his nose very slightly. “Is that an