Going abroad

(parts one, deux, et trois)

I’ve decided to take a cue from my wife and go travelling. I was going to return home after the attack on my winter estate, but apparently my sister, Berenice, is a tad upset that I killed her husband and has declared her intention to kill me. She’s not very creative so she’s probably sitting in her carriage in front of my home with a shotgun, or some damn thing. Fortunately her servants are quite aged so I have little to fear from them, and she lacks the wit or resources to hire killers. Poor, sweet Berenice, so out of her depth. I am sure she will tire of this farce soon enough and return to her pillows and marionettes.
But where should I go? I have a perverse desire to go somewhere wretchedly cold; maybe it would adequately distract my staff so as to stop their moaning.
Siberia? An eccentric choice, and one the Cabral Society would not foresee. But, as ever, there is my own comfort to worry about. My blasted wife took all the furs with her when she went on tour with that damnable circus troupe and I don’t know of any reliable furriers in my area. I suppose I could have Holtz shoot some woolly beasts, and Cavendish could fashion a decent coat. You’d never know it to look at him but he’s an excellent tailor.
And as for my son, Dennis? I’ve decided I shall invite him to come along. Although I have several bastard sons with my housekeeper Consuela, they have inherited her fiery temperament. I fear I shall lose them all to hot-blooded duels and crimes of passion before they reach manhood. By way of example; when I told Consuela, years ago, that I would not be renouncing my titles or holdings to that we could marry, she reacted by shooting me in the left temple, tying me up in a potato sack and throwing me into the river. The woman weighs a hundred pounds! As she assumed I was dead, the bag had not been tied very tightly, and I was able to escape. When I crawled back onto my grounds I saw that Consuela had set fire to the guesthouse, where we held our various secret rendezvous. Seeing her, backlit from the flames, her hair whipping around her face, screaming obscenities in whatever language she speaks; it was impossible not to forgive her. Fortunately my wife was in Berlin at the time, producing an opera about dinosaurs.
So I have Dennis; whom I am confident will not be doing too much dueling. There is the risk of opium overdose, I suppose, but good God! The amount of premium singing-dynasty opium the lad has ingested already would have killed a horse! That reminds me: I must contact my drug agent, the Honorable Turk, before we go.
And go we shall. I’ve decided. To the icy wastes of Siberia! I doubt all of my staff will survive the journey, but pish and tosh; I’ve pledged to raise the wages of those who live. An empty promise, I assure you.