Of Moths and Butterflies by V. R. Christensen Page B

for a young man born under the pall of illegitimacy. But there was a price to pay for such privilege, and it was now, and in this way, that he was expected to repay. He was to establish himself in Society, to find himself a bride, and a wealthy one. And to please his uncle, he could not do it too soon. He cast his gaze around the room and felt a wave of repulsion at the idea.
    What he wouldn’t give for a quiet card room and a bottle to himself. Mrs. Barton had thankfully moved off. Sir Edmund’s set could do little to help him with his uncle’s mistress on his arm. Society knew well enough when to call a spade a spade. The sham engagement had gone on too long to fool anyone. If only Archer could make his own way. But he must start somewhere. And so, drawing a breath, trying to focus his mind on the task at hand, he once more scanned the crowd. It was not all bad. There were some fine looking women here. Perhaps something might be accomplished after all. Miss Radcliffe was looking particularly well in sapphire blue. He rather liked that colour on the dark-haired beauties. He considered for a moment the idea of approaching her, when he heard his name.
    “Hamilton!”
    “Roger Barrett,” Archer returned, taking his hand.
    “I had not expected to see you here.”
    “No, nor had I,” Archer answered.
    “To see me, do you mean, or… Oh!” Roger said, laughing as he comprehended the joke. “What was it that tempted you out tonight, then?”
    “Curiosity, I suppose,” Archer said in lieu of the truth. “You?” he asked in turn, though he already had a good idea.
    Barrett had always been a few rungs higher on the social ladder than his merits should have allowed, but he was not without talent. Their time together at school had proved that. Archer could not begrudge him his success simply because his friend had taken the trouble to earn what he himself had not.
    “It’s my occupation, you know,” Barrett answered, “at least at present, until I can find something else more profitable.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “If I want to make anything of myself, I must work at it. Perhaps you understand. No? Well, it’s a job like any other. I must exert every effort, mixing and mingling, and making myself invaluable to those who might help me in my aspirations.”
    “Yes, I suppose I see what you mean.”
    Barrett took a sip of his drink, and smiled, as if to himself. “It’s merely a dinner party, I suppose you might say, but appearances are so often misleading. In fact, it’s not at all what it appears to be. Of course you know that.”
    “Do I?” Archer answered.
    Barrett leaned in to speak confidentially. “It looks like a casual evening of innocent diversion, but it isn’t that at all. It’s really much closer to a three ring circus.”
    “And how is that?” Archer asked him, curious to hear what promised to be an amusing analogy and finding himself growing in sympathy with his friend the more of it he heard.
    “Well, you see over here,” Barrett said, nodding in the direction of a nearby room, through which their host could be seen, leading the discussion amidst a crowd of eager listeners and a cloud of tobacco smoke. “That is where the ringmasters conduct their business, how to run the show, you see, whom to bring into the act. They might cast one of us as acrobat or fire eater, or they might toss us in with the freaks. But most of us, you and I included, are little more than lions, jumping through whatever hoops they should deign to hold before us.”
    Archer watched them for a moment, and considered. As much as he regretted to admit it, he and Barrett were in very nearly the same boat.
    “Of course they’re not the only ones running the show,” Barrett continued, his gaze moving pointedly in the direction of a group of ladies standing not far off, among whom were Roger’s aunt, Mrs. Julia Barrett, and a striking beauty who made it a habit of glancing in Roger’s direction whenever