Page 2 of Mad Duke March

London

March 1820

“Fire it up, Chaos,” Tyrone said and took a large swig of whisky, the liquid burning its path through his throat as he leaned against the giant, black-lacquered carriage and glanced down at the busy street.

People bustled about, hurrying in and out of the Petticoat Lane market, while street vendors called out their wares. Amidst the cacophony, the sounds of repairs going on in the street lingered in the air, the pungent scent of fresh paint wafted from buckets, and the clatter of ladders lined up by the roadside filled the scene.

Mr. Charles Thomas Hunter, a man his friends and subsequently all of England called Chaos, walked up to the firebox in the huge, metallic boiler and ignited the fuel.

Chaos was a man of few words but many interests. With his dark brown unruly hair, wild, fiery gaze, and rumpled cravat, he should have been the one to be dubbed the Madman of London, or at the very least the Mad Man of Science.

Somehow, the honor of getting the Mad moniker had fallen to Tyrone. Why? That would forever remain a mystery to him.

“I don’t think this is the best place to test this monster,” Sutton said. “The street is filled with people.”

“Therein lies the challenge,” Tyrone replied and took another swig of burning liquid. His mind now cleared, the color had returned all around him, the sounds of the busy street bothering him less than before. “Can an experimental steam carriage make it past the busy street without incident and without causing much distress?”

“I wager it can’t,” Tyrone’s other friend, Lucien Drake, chimed in. There were two or three other gentlemen with them, but Tyrone did not remember their names. They were young, drunk, and enthusiastic about the experiment. That was all Tyrone needed to know.

“Then we shall make the papers!” Tyrone insisted. “And Chaos’s new invention will get the due it deserves.”

“Or we shall spend the night in the gaol,” Sutton noted darkly.

Tyrone let out a bark of laughter. “I am a duke. Besides, this, by far, is the least outrageous thing I have done in my life, and I have always come away unscathed.”

Perhaps, that’s why he was called the Mad Duke.

Tyrone loved testing the limits of any endeavor, including, but not limited to, his tolerance for alcohol and other people’s reactions to unhinged behavior. He was always placing—and winning—the most audacious wagers and coming up with the most damning escapades.

He barely finished the sentence when, as if summoned from the ether by Sutton’s words or Tyrone’s own daring, two constables appeared before them.

“Pardon me, m’lords, but you can’t be testing your machine here!” one of them yelled over the sounds of the engine. “You can’t be driving that thing on the public roads.”

Tyrone laughed. “Do you not know who I am, sir? I’ll not be told where I can and cannot drive my own carriage! Or any carriage, for that matter.”

“We do know who you are, sir,” the second constable, the older of the two, with a few gray hairs peeking out from under his hat and a rounded belly under his coat, insisted. “This isn’t the first time you’ve attempted this feat. And unless you received proper authorization for that beast of a machine, it is not allowed to be out on the streets!”

“This is merely a trial run,” Lucien said calmly, patting the man on his shoulder and smoothly maneuvering both constables away from the noise. “Certainly two men of the law won’t stand in the way of progress?”

He was trying to distract them. Tyrone looked around and a fabulous idea entered his mind.

“On my signal start the machine,” he told Chaos and walked away.

“What signal?” Chaos shouted over the noise of the engine, but Tyrone just smirked.

The younger constable shook his head. “Apologies, milords. Rules are rules. As long as that carriage hasn’t got proper patents or permissions, we cannot allow it on the streets.”

Tyrone emptied his flask, shaking the last drop into his mouth. Then he picked up a bucket of red paint and a brush and cocked his head toward his friends. “Lucien needs our help distracting the constables. Let’s lend him a hand, shall we?”

With that, he proceeded to paint the doors and signs of the houses red. The other gentlemen followed his cue, knocking off flowerpots, paint buckets, and otherwise sowing chaos.

Constables, forgetting about the steam-carriage, ran after Tyrone and his friends, trying unsuccessfully to stop them.

Just then, Chaos pulled the lever, and the carriage rattled toward them.

“See here!” the older constable yelled, waving in a feeble attempt to stop the barreling carriage. “You stop this instant or arrests shall be made!”

“Arrests!” Tyrone scoffed. “We haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all in the name of science.”