Positively Wicked

On a misty afternoon in the hallowed Haltonshire Country Club, Sir Reginald Thistleworth eased himself into his favourite leather armchair by the roaring fire. The air was thick with the comforting scent of pipe tobacco and polished wood, mingling with the faint dampness wafting in from the gardens. Across from him, Lord Percival Wainwright, a stately figure whose silver hair gleamed even in the dim light, settled into his own chair with a slight groan, steadying himself with his silver-fox-topped cane.

Outside, a steady rain drizzled over the manicured lawns, blurring the rose bushes and ivy-coated walls through the large windows. A few club members drifted by in hushed conversation, but none dared enter the small drawing room. The tension that had gripped the Haltonshire set over the past few days seemed to linger here most keenly as if the very walls bore witness to the unspeakable scandal that had shaken them.

The two men sat in silence, each gazing pensively into his glass of brandy, savouring the warm bite as it slid down their throats. Finally, Sir Reginald cleared his throat, the sound thick and rasping, as though breaking the silence required a certain bravery. “Percy,” he began, his voice low. “I suppose you’ve heard… about the incident.”

Lord Wainwright gave a curt nod, his face tightening into a scowl. He rested his cane against the armrest and tapped his fingers lightly on his knee, a small but pointed sign of his agitation. “Yes, Reggie,” he murmured, the words escaping like a sigh. “Quite beyond the pale. I can hardly believe it—someone of our set...”

The rain tapped more insistently against the windows as if urging them to speak faster, to confront the unspoken darkness that hovered between them. Wainwright's eyes drifted to the window, and for a moment, he seemed almost lost, staring out at the damp landscape, the carefully tended flowerbeds and trimmed hedges blurred by the downpour. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, almost reverent. “It’s a disgrace.”

Sir Reginald let out a dry chuckle that turned into a soft, brittle cough. “A disgrace? Percy, you’re underselling it. When Lady Cranshaw got wind, she went whiter than her own pearls! I thought for a moment we’d need to ring up old Dr Chesterfield. She sat there clutching her necklace like it was a lifeline as if she might faint dead away right in the middle of the luncheon.”

Lord Wainwright allowed himself a small, wry smile. “Oh, indeed. That poor woman was all but undone by the news. She made her excuses, you know, just minutes after hearing it. I daresay she went straight for her sherry cabinet the moment she arrived home.”

A flicker of amusement danced in Reginald’s eyes, and he raised his glass, swirling the brandy thoughtfully. “She wasn’t alone, Percy. You should have seen the looks on the ladies’ faces. I’ve seen cooler expressions at funerals. Not one of them could finish their meals. The dishes were barely touched!”

They shared a knowing glance, a flicker of amusement passing between them like boys sharing a secret thrill. But soon their chuckles faded, replaced by a familiar, oppressive silence. The rain began to beat harder against the windows, filling the room with a dull roar that seemed to reflect the storm swirling within their minds. Reginald sat back, his hand absently brushing his thick, bristling moustache as he weighed his words.

“You know,” he began, voice almost a whisper, “it’s the sheer brazenness of it that gets me. The nerve. I can scarcely imagine what sort of mind would conjure up such a… scheme.”

“Scheme?” Wainwright gave him a sidelong look, his voice tight with barely contained indignation. “It’s more than a scheme, Reggie. It’s—dare I say it—nearly treasonous! Decency, decorum, the basic order of things… they’ve been tossed aside like some bit of rubbish. And for what?” He gave an exasperated huff, clutching his cane with a renewed grip. “To think that we once considered that man a… respectable member of our club.”

Reginald pursed his lips, his gaze darkening as he took another sip of brandy. He savoured the warmth, hoping it would soften the bitter taste of outrage that clung to his tongue. “Respectable. Ha! And the worst part, Percy, the very worst part, is that they carried on as though nothing was amiss. Have you seen the man’s face? He looks positively smug as if he’s somehow in on a grand joke that the rest of us have yet to understand.”

Wainwright’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Oh, I’ve seen him. Wretched, isn’t it? Strutting about the club like a peacock, as if he hadn’t… well, you know.”

“Yes, Percy, I do know,” Reginald replied, his tone hardening. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And to think we’ve been sitting across from him all these years. Sharing meals, playing cards, talking about our gardens. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How long has he been like this? How long has he been… capable of such a thing?”

Outside, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the countryside, echoing through the hills and rattling the windowpanes. The room felt suddenly colder as if the scandal itself had leeched all warmth from the air. For a moment, neither man spoke, each lost in his own thoughts, gazing into the fire as if searching for answers among the embers.

Finally, Wainwright spoke, his voice a near whisper. “Do you think the others will… confront him? I’ve heard whispers, you know. Rumours about what some of the chaps plan to do.”

Reginald’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back, one hand gripping the arm of his chair. “Oh, I’ve heard the whispers. Old Jenkins and Montague are leading the charge, it seems. And if you ask me, Percy, it’s only a matter of time. This sort of thing can’t go unanswered. They’ll demand his resignation. They’ll push for him to be… well, you know.”

“Expelled,” Wainwright murmured, the word seeming to hang in the air, heavy and final. “And perhaps that’s all that can be done. We can’t very well… call the authorities.”

“Of course not,” Reginald said quickly, a flicker of horror passing over his face. “This is still Haltonshire, after all. We have standards to uphold. But mark my words, Percy, he’ll be ostracised, driven out. He’ll have no place here, not after… after that.”

They sat in brooding silence, each man lost in thoughts of how their world had been shattered by this unexpected upheaval. The club had always been a sanctuary, a bastion of tradition and respectability, immune to the chaos of the outside world. But now, that sense of order had been upended, and the old certainties no longer held.

Finally, Wainwright broke the silence, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. “Do you remember that summer—oh, it must have been twenty years ago now—when we caught young Fenton sneaking brandy into the croquet pavilion? Caused quite a stir, didn’t it?”

Reginald smiled faintly, his eyes softening at the memory. “Oh, yes. Poor Fenton. I think we made him scrub that pavilion from top to bottom.”

Wainwright chuckled, a low, mirthless sound. “Yes, we did. Thought we were quite the disciplinarians, didn’t we? And now… now it seems so trivial, doesn’t it? A harmless little prank compared to… this.”

“Yes, Percy,” Reginald murmured, his gaze darkening once more. “This is something else entirely.”

The storm outside had reached its peak, and rain lashed against the windows in sheets, obscuring the world beyond. The two men sat in silence, the weight of the scandal pressing down on them like a physical force. They had spent their lives upholding the codes of their society, the unwritten rules that governed every aspect of their existence. And now, those rules had been shattered by a single, unspeakable act.

After a long pause, Reginald spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I suppose, Percy… I suppose we carry on because we must. But things will never be the same, will they? Not after this.”

“No,” Wainwright replied, his tone sombre. “No, Reggie. It won’t.”

Another long silence followed, punctuated only by the steady beat of the rain and the crackling of the fire. They were two old men, clinging to the remnants of a world that no longer existed, trying to make sense of an event that defied understanding.

At last, Wainwright let out a heavy sigh and set down his glass, his hand trembling slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazed into the fire with a look of grim determination. “Well,” he said, his voice low and resolute, “whatever else one might say about it…”

Reginald looked up, meeting his friend’s gaze. He could see the same mixture of horror and reluctant admiration in Wainwright’s eyes, a strange fascination with the audacity of it all.

“It was,” Reginald murmured, almost as if confessing a sin, “positively wicked.”

The two men sat back, letting the words linger in the room like a confession shared between old friends, a final, quiet acknowledgement of a world that was slipping away, lost to the storm.