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March 31

Sean Continues to Annoy

A short post this morning, as I am busy with accounts all day today. I should mention that Sean is in a temper with me because I found it necessary to ask his odious group of flatterers to leave my home last night, and, as I had been in my drinks for some time—not through intemperance mind you, but as a last resort to try and get to sleep with all the racket going on downstairs—I was not perhaps quite so diplomatic as I would have liked. Though honestly, if a man takes such offense at being called, in jest, a malodorous bootlicker, then he is not fit to be called a man. Now that I think on it, I may have expressed that opinion as well, which was perhaps a trifle impolitic in the circumstances.

Thus Sean is sulking and silent, and Patrick being at an all-day symposium on leeches at the Royal Society I have some leisure to attend to my own affairs for once, beginning with this ship we have chartered for our venture out East. I am less troubled by the ship itself than I am by its captain, a Spanish gentleman named Gustavo Araoz, who is one of those fellows that insists on clasping one's hand with far too much force when he is introduced, which, coupled with the grave shortcoming I have already mentioned—that he is a Spaniard—leaves me with no small misgivings about him.

I am just now remembering that there was quite a bit of talk about a duel last night. I hope very much that it did not involve me.

March 24

Putting on Airs

Current mood: Captious
Listening to: A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, by Johann Herman Schein (don't even ask)

I have been remiss in not posting for some time now, but truth be told, while my house has been a flurry of activity the past two weeks, it has not been particularly postworthy activity, to my mind. Unless, that is, you are one of those who make a study of human nature and take an academic interest (or a perverse pleasure) in the absurd antics of the chronically silly. I am referring, of course, to Sean, who continues to board with me while he seeks a more permanent residence where he may, presumably, flounce around the house more or less unrestricted.

It has not been long since Sean came into money, but he has wasted no time in acquiring a positive throng of toadying "friends", who like to pretend that his privy humour is the highest form of wit, and that his ludicrous outfits (one of his first actions upon becoming rich was to purchase a pair of breeches that could, and possibly do, house a small family) are the very acme of the "new style". Worse yet, he has begun to speak in the most affected manner, which, given that he has only three topics of conversation at his disposal—whores, drinking, and drinking with whores—produces some of the most ludicrous sentiments ever uttered in the English language (if such it can be called).

Nonetheless, it must be admitted that he has, at times, a shrewd head for business, and though he throws his money away to suit his vanity and his sycophantic friends, I will not be surprised overmuch should he make it back through sound investments. At any rate, our upcoming venture into the East does not fill me with such fear as it did at first, and if I can only get him and Patrick to concentrate we will make some proper headway. This does not appear likely today, however, as the pair of them are enjoying an impromptu harpsichord recital downstairs, while Sean makes inappropriate comments and claps at all the wrong times.

March 8

Man to Gentleman

Rich Sean is a compass a-spin.  I noticed in him very early a certain shrewdness, masked by his rough-hewn form and his failure to use consonants properly, which wile was especially impressive when it came to removing things of value from their rightful owners. This quiet rapacity, dancing in turn with his lucky stars and his complete financial ignorance, made him among London's wealthier gentlemen, and certainly the richest to have not an acre to his name.  It has left him also at a loss of purpose.  After the usual splurging of the newly rich -- that eventful night he first bought everyone in the Crimson Unicorn a round, and then, realizing the full scale of his wealth, he bought the Crimson Unicorn -- he has been directionless.  I have spied him pocketing Jack's salt cellars out of habit, only to "find" them again the next day, and his conversations with Bucephalus have turned curt.

He has been extremely fortunate to have Jack and myself about, to help him understand the rudiments of money and investing, to give some higher purpose to his time, and, we hope, some much higher return to his capital than the Crimson Unicorn -- a fine establishment of which I can say nothing ill -- could ever provide.

And so we have chartered a ship.