Elmwood #2
“Show some respect,” said Forsyth, and Elmwood realized that he’d said the bit about disappointment out loud.
The footman gratefully scampered off—no doubt relieved to flee both the smell and the secondhand disapproval—and Elmwood settled into his chair.
“You’re late,” said Galbraith.
“Of course he is,” said Forsyth.
“No amount of wishing to honor my father could shorten the road from the front,” said Elmwood, with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Humph,” said Galbraith. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re here at all. Why turn up for the funeral when you couldn’t be bothered to visit your own father when he was dying and wished to see you?”
“Sick people are such a bore,” said Elmwood.
Forsyth clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“You’re a disgrace. He almost disinherited you, you know.
If there had been anyone at all who was even barely suitable—a second cousin once removed who had been living abroad, a forgotten great-uncle with one foot in the grave himself, anyone—he would have signed the entire estate over in an instant.
The fact that you are to become the Earl of Elmwood in his stead was his greatest regret. ”
“I am the Earl of Elmwood,” said Elmwood, offering Forsyth a sarcastic little salute. “And my first official act is to relieve you of your position. You’re sacked.”
“I don’t work for you, you degenerate heel,” said Forsyth.
“I suppose you don’t. Fine, then.” He pointed at Galbraith. “You’re sacked. I have my own lawyer, and he’s much nicer than you.” He turned back to Forsyth. “You’re not sacked, but you can go stick your head up a horse’s ass as far as I’m concerned.”
He ignored their incensed splutterings, slouching down in his chair. Telling them off should have been satisfying, but it only made his exhaustion more acute. He had a headache and was fairly certain that the only thing that would cure it was more gin.
Somehow Elmwood made it through the remainder of the wake and the interment of his father’s corpse into the family tomb.
The flask he had hidden in his frock coat helped immeasurably.
All the other funeral-goers kept ogling him with a mixture of delighted horror, disgust, and smugness. Well, all except for one young lady.
She was standing across from him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She had lovely, pale breasts, like two waxing moons wrapped up in violet lace.
He smiled at her, and she blushed.
What a delectable distraction she would be. He took another swig from his flask, ignoring the glares and headshakes. His father would hate for him to have anything resembling a good time at his funeral. That thought made his smile widen.
Things got rather hazy after that.
He vaguely recalled falling backward onto his father’s massive, four-poster bed and getting tangled in the curtains. He recalled seeing the bosom again, this time quite close. Perhaps without the lace? He recalled yearning for the oblivion of drunken, forbidden ecstasy.
Aside from that—nothing.
Elmwood flailed in his bedclothes, trying to find a more comfortable position, but his hip showed no mercy. Rollo grumbled as he jostled him.
What could he possibly have said or done while in such a state to have made Lady Isobel love him well enough to risk her reputation on such a poor choice of husband?
Whatever pleasure he had shown her must certainly have been extremely fleeting.
No woman or man, having seen him as he truly was, could possibly love him.
Better for her to grieve a lost love than an unfaithful one who would break her heart.
Indeed, it would undoubtedly be better for everyone if Elmwood had never existed at all.
When Elmwood awoke with a start the next morning, he immediately had the intense impression that something was wrong.
He lay there cataloging his aches and pains.
His bad hip. The other hip, which also hurt from doing so much extra work to make up for the bad one.
His lower back, because his hips held him crookedly and it seemed to unhinge the entire poppet of his skeleton.
His jaw, right behind his ears, from clenching his teeth all through the night as he slept. All normal.
Wait. He was alone in his bed. Rollo wasn’t in his usual morning spot, tucked into the crook of Elmwood’s arm and putting his hand to sleep. Elmwood sat up with a wince.
“Rollo?” he called. When no happy snuffling started up in response, his heart began to beat faster.
Surely the wretched creature was close by.
Perhaps Nimsby was making breakfast, and Rollo had smelled it and abandoned Elmwood to go and beg for a sausage.
Elmwood couldn’t smell anything except his own nightmare sweat, but he didn’t have the nose of a badger hound.
He got up as quickly as he could manage, splashed some freezing water on himself, and then dressed.
As he made his way down to the kitchen, he called for Rollo—quietly, though, as he had no wish to wake the ladies and have to deal with them, or wake Winthrop and have to explain to him that Rollo was missing.
He burst into the kitchen, desperately hoping to see the dog stretched out by the fire, but the hearth was quite cold. No Rollo.
Now his heart really was pounding. The stupid animal couldn’t have gotten outside, could he? It wasn’t as though he could open doors!
He had gone back into the front hall, trying to determine where to search next, when the door of the house opened, spilling Lady Isobel inside. Her cheeks were flushed from the chill.
“Oh, my darling Erol!” she cried. “You’re awake at last. I have had the most splendid stroll over to the stables. They are ever so quaint, but I think we shall have to expand them, if you wish for us to stay here often.”
“Have you seen Rollo?” he asked her, hardly hearing her babbling.
“Rollo?”
“The dog.”
“Oh!” She smiled at him brightly. “He wanted to go out, so I let him.”
Elmwood clenched his hands to try to quell the shaking.
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. Still running around the gardens, I expect.”
It was fine, Elmwood told himself firmly. Dogs went out and ran around by themselves all the time. It wasn’t as though Rollo was likely to pick a fight with a bear or get abducted by rogue badger hunters or fall into a crevasse…
Except that was precisely what the cursed hound was likely to do!
“Excuse me, Lady Isobel,” he said, and then he fled outside with his heart in his throat to search for Rollo.