Page 6 of Earl Crazy
“How wonderful that you’ve come back from the dead, my lord,” Fanny cooed. “But I daresay you’ve been terribly lonely this past twelvemonth. Does he not look lonely, Darby? Do you require some companionship, my lord?”
“God, no. I—oof!” Kit stared at the half-dressed lady who’d just landed in his lap. Dark hair, red lips, sleepy eyes, her bosom exposed by the plunging neckline of her gown, which was falling off one shoulder. “Where in God’s name did you come from, Fanny?” Had she been clinging to the chandelier above him, and dropped down from the ceiling?
“Don’t be tiresome, Prestwick.”
Tiresome? No, that wasn’t the word for it. He’d arrived in London less than twenty-four hours ago, and already he was exhausted.
“Come now, my lord. I’ll take care of you.” Fanny wriggled against him and plunged her fingers into his hair, but he jerked away from her touch and lurched to his feet, dumping her into the chair he’d just vacated. She let out an outraged squawk, but he ignored her, and fumbled for his watch.
It was one o’clock in the morning, and judging by the reek of stale air and sweat, and the empty bottles scattered over every surface, he’d been lost in a drunken stupor for some time. Long enough that the half dozen crystal decanters Darby had migrated from the sideboard to the table lay in broken pieces on the floor. “Which one of you devils smashed my crystal?”
Darby yawned. “You did it yourself, Prestwick. You swiped at them with the fireplace poker, and sent the whole lot crashing to the floor.”
Kit dragged a hand down his face. He was going to regret asking this— he knew he was. “Why would I smash my own crystal, Darby?”
Darby sighed, as if he were being tiresome, indeed. “You were demonstrating your fencing technique. Don’t you remember?”
Fencing, in his study? Good Lord. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten foxed and done something foolish, or even the fiftieth time, but he’d hoped he’d put those days behind him, and was no longer the scoundrel he’d once been.
Hecouldn’tbe that man. Not anymore.
As for what kind of man he was now…well, that was anyone’s bloody guess, but he wasn’t going to find the answer at the bottom of a bottle of port. “Right, Darby. It’s time for you to depart. Gather your things, and be on your way.”
“Yes, do go on, Darby.” Fanny waved an imperious hand toward the study door. “Prestwick and I are going to bed, aren’t we, darling?”
“I am. You, madam, may do as you please, as long as you do it elsewhere.” Kit drew himself up with as much dignity as a man who reeked of port possibly could, and nudged Darby with the toe of his boot. “See to it you take Fanny with you.”
Darby let out another long-suffering sigh. “Yes, alright. No need for a tantrum, Prestwick. We’re going. Fancy a jaunt to Covent Garden, Fanny?”
“Indeed, I do.” Fanny cast Kit a disdainful glance, rose to her feet with an offended flounce of her skirts, and took Darby’s arm. “I’m not in the habit of staying where I’m not wanted.”
That was debatable, but the promise of more debauchery got them moving quicky enough, and a damned good thing too, as the port Kit had swallowed was gurgling in his belly. It would make a reappearance sooner rather than later, and he’d just as soon cast up his accounts in private.
“Good of you to see us out, Prestwick,” Darby drawled as Kit hurried them down the corridor to the entryway, and threw open the front door. “You’re quite the gentleman, now you’ve become an earl.”
An earl, yes. A gentleman? Hardly. “Not a bit of it, Darby. I just want to make certain you’ve gone.” The last time Darby had descended on him with a ragged band of villains, he’d nearly broken his neck stumbling over a comatose body at the bottom of his staircase the following morning.
“Dear me, we are cross, aren’t we?” Darby gave him an unrepentant grin. “Are you certain you won’t accompany us to Covent Garden?”
“As certain as I’ve ever been of anything in my life.” Kit nodded toward the open door of Darby’s carriage, and Darby sauntered down the steps, Fanny hanging on his arm.
He handed her in, then turned back to Kit. “About your plans this season, Prestwick. I’m not certain people ever really change, curse or not. Consider carefully before you take on a countess, eh?”
He didn’t wait for a reply, but climbed into the carriage after Fanny and signaled his driver to go. Kit ventured onto the stoop and down the steps, watching as the carriage made its way down Heath Street, the rattle of the wheels fading as it turned toward New End Square. Once it was gone, silence descended, and the darkness pressed more closely around him.
He blew out a breath, a stream of frosty air spilling from his lips. At some point during the evening he’d discarded his coat and waistcoat, likely when he’d been displaying his fencing prowess, and the frigid air seeped through the thin layer of his linen shirt, nipping at his collarbones.
He turned and made his way back up the steps, but he paused at the top and peered into the deserted entryway.
Ah, yes.
This was why he needed Darby. He remembered now.
The silence.
But there was nothing for it, but to keep moving forward. He stepped over the threshold, but before he could get through the door a sudden bout of dizziness attacked him, and his legs threatened to buckle under him. He grabbed for the door frame, struggling to right himself, but it was no use. Blood rushed into his head, pounding at his temples and blurring his eyes, and his stomach lurched with nausea.
Once a man was destined to fall, he’d plummet until fate intervened.
