Chapter 14
More Than Friends
“Hetty, wake up!”
“W-what?” Hetty mumbled, struggling up from a deep sleep to blink in the near darkness of her room. Cilly was a blurry white shape limned by moonlight. “What’s wrong? Is the house on fire?”
“No. But… listen.”
For a moment Hetty wondered if her sister had been dreaming, for why on earth had she woken her up to ask her to listen to absolutely—oh. Oh!
“Good heavens. Who is it?” Hetty whispered, flinging back the bedcovers and reaching for her dressing gown.
“I believe it is your Romeo, come to woo you, Juliet,” Cilly replied wryly.
Hetty snorted. “Come to deliver the poison himself, more like. Hurry, whatever he wants, we’d best get him to shut up before he wakes the house.”
The two of them scurried through the great house like little white mice, their cotton nightgowns bright in the moonlight as they padded through the darkened halls.
“We can’t go out the front door!” Cilly squeaked in alarm.
“We’re not,” Hetty said, opening the door to the servant’s staircase. “Hurry.”
They ran down the stairs, feeling their way, as Hetty led them through to the kitchens. It took a while to unlock the back door, but finally they were outside.
“We’ll get into so much trouble if we’re caught,” Cilly exclaimed, though she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to turn around.
“Then hush! You’re making more racket than they are,” Hetty shot back, as they avoided the crunchy gravel path and ran noiselessly over the grass.
The singing, if that was what it was supposed to be, stopped abruptly, and Hetty heard masculine laughter. What the devil was going on? Surely that wasn’t Gideon, and yet… it sounded like Gideon.
Sort of.
“Here,” Cilly called softly, gesturing to Hetty as she peered around the trunk of an ancient oak tree.
Hetty joined her, smothering a bark of laughter as she saw Gideon lying on his back outside the gates of the Hall.
The gates were locked, thankfully, so they’d not been able to reach the house, or he really would have woken everyone.
No, they would have woken everyone, she amended, realising he was not alone.
“Get up, Deon. You’re making a spect—a sprec—you look like a right twit,” Viscount Rivington said unsteadily.
Gideon only laughed. “S-funny. Twit.”
Hetty turned and looked at Cilly, who was biting her lip. “They’re foxed,” Cilly sniggered with undisguised glee.
“Foxed? They’re as drunk as an emperor, and that’s ten times drunker than a lord,” Hetty said sagely, having heard that from her brother.
“Get up, you pillock. Can’t win a fair maiden lying in the dirt.”
The viscount gave his brother a small, encouraging kick. Gideon only laughed. Then with sudden solemnity, he sat bolt upright and sang— “Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine. Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I’ll not look for wine.”
“No, you’ve had enough brandy to sink a Man O’ War though,” his less romantic brother pointed out dryly.
“Don’t be a tosser when I’m declaring… something.
” Gideon looked confused and rubbed a weary hand over his face.
Hetty’s heart, which had leapt at the sound of those romantic words, crashed once more.
Well, he was drunk. She’d seen Hart in a sorry state plenty of times and knew anything a man said under the influence was not to be trusted.
In her experience, in vino veritas was sadly overrated.
She sighed and turned to Cilly. “We’d better put a stop to this before anyone sees them. Gee-Gee might think it a lark, but Hawkney won’t.”
Cilly nodded her agreement, and so Hetty squared her shoulders, tried to forget she was wearing her nightclothes, and strode to the gates.
“You there,” she said crisply. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, disturbing people in the middle of the night, but—”
“Hetty!” Gideon exclaimed, his expression brightening to such a degree that Hetty was momentarily set adrift.
“Mr Bramwell,” she replied cautiously. “You are drunk.”
Gideon shook his head, his expression grave as he wagged an unsteady finger. “No, my lady. You are mistaken. I’m piss—”
“Mr Bramwell!” Hetty exclaimed, struggling to keep a face and look affronted when all she wanted to do was laugh.
Gideon snorted and lay back down on the path. “God, I’m tired,” he murmured.
“You can’t sleep there!” Hetty exclaimed, horrified. “You’ll get run over.”
“Good evening, ladies, Lady Henrietta, Lady Ceci—Cillia—Lady Cilly. Silly Cilly,” the viscount chuckled to himself as he tried and failed to bow, dropped his hat and stared down at it curiously as if he expected it to get up and walk away.
Hetty glanced at her sister, who was watching him with avid interest.
Hetty cleared her throat. “I think you had both best go… go to wherever it is you came from,” she said firmly, realising she did not know where best to send them.
“No.” Gideon sat up again, and then scrambled to his feet, which was a miracle from the way he lurched sideways. “No. Must apologise. S’what I came for. Sorry. Sorry, m’lady. I was… wrong. Rude too. Ungrateful. Ungrateful brute,” he amended with a frown, apparently thinking the description lacking.
“Well, yes, you were rather,” Hetty replied, though any resentment she’d felt had long since disappeared. She understood the desire to protect oneself with anger, a reaction she was guilty of herself. “But it’s all right. I rather think we had better speak once you’ve sobered up, though.”
He walked to the gates, his long fingers curling around the wrought iron, his grey eyes stormy as he gazed at her. “Friends?”
Hetty’s heart hurt at the question, but she put a brave face on it. “Friends,” she agreed.
He still looked troubled, gazing at her with those eyes full of thunderclouds. “More than friends?”
Hetty’s breath caught as she stared at him, wondering if he knew what he was saying. More than anything, she wished the gates were unlocked. Yet she hardly knew what to say, so she just nodded. He grinned then, a bright, wicked grin that made him look like his brother.
“Go home, Gideon,” she told him gently. “Call on me tomorrow, when you feel up to it,” she added with a smile. He’d have the devil of a headache in the morning.
He nodded, turning away before looking back over his shoulder. “Hetty?”
“Yes?” she said, heart hammering all over again.
“I like your nightgown.” He winked at her before strolling away, hands in his pockets as he weaved precariously from one side of the road to the other.
The viscount attempted another bow, noticed his hat still on the ground, and used the motion to pick it up. “Good night, ladies, May sweetest dreams attend your sleep, and gentle thoughts your slumber keep.” He intoned gravely before lurching off in the same direction as his brother.
They watched them go until they were out of sight, and Hetty smiled as Cilly took her arm.
“More than friends?” Cilly murmured, her tone teasing.
Hetty elbowed her. “Hush,” she scolded, but she smiled all the way back to her room.
The Grand Hotel Building Site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 3rd August 1816
“You’ll be wantin’ the hair of the dog what bit you, sir. If you don’t mind my remarking it.”
Larry Barlow gave him a knowing grin as Gideon glowered balefully at the man.
He had sorely regretted arranging this meeting for seven thirty, especially as he’d been up at six puking his guts up.
“A raw egg whisked into stale ale, that’s the ticket, Mr Bramwell,” Billy Preston said firmly. “Works a treat, it does. Down it in one, and don’t stop to think on it.”
“Nah.” Larry shook his head. “Vinegar with black pepper and a pinch of salt. Or I remember my grandfather, who liked a drink I’m bound to say, well, he swore by cold mutton fat spread on bread with some raw onion sliced thin. He reckoned it lined the stomach.”
“I heard pickled herring in yesterday’s beer worked a treat.”
“Or treacle stirred into porter, with a tablespoon of hot mustard.”
“Enough!” Gideon held up a hand in surrender, his stomach roiling unpleasantly. “You’ve had your fun. Let’s get this over with.”
The men chuckled, and Larry shook his head, looking sheepish.
“Ah, it’s all right, Mr Bramwell, me and Billy had a chat last night over a pint, and I was wrong to accuse him. I see it now, only I was that angry, and he were there, and… well, I’ve a temper I’m sorry to say. But someone is causing mischief, and my tools need replacing, an expense I don’t need.”
“You can borrow mine,” Billy offered, to which Larry nodded his thanks.
“I’ll do that, for it’ll take me a good few weeks to cover the cost of them.”
Gideon looked between them. These men were locals, for he’d done his best to seek local workmen wherever possible, only bringing the most skilled he needed from farther afield.
This job meant everything to them, to their families.
The hotel would bring prosperity to the town, more work, opportunities.
They were not the kind to bite the hand that fed them.
“If I take the two of you into my confidence, can I rely on you to keep your mouths shut?” he asked, looking between them.
The two men exchanged glances. “Aye. Do you reckon it’s one of the men, then?”
Gideon nodded. “I can’t help but think it. The site is locked up tight after hours, and most things walk off during the day. I want you to keep your eyes peeled but say nothing.”
“What you goin’ to do about it?” Billy asked.
“I’m working on a plan. Once I have it tied up, I’ll let you know. All right?”
“You can count on us, Mr Bramwell. My missus hopes to get work at the hotel when it’s done.
We don’t want nothing to go wrong,” Larry said earnestly.
“And please send Lady Henrietta my regrets again. I’m that sorry, but it truly were an accident.
If it makes her feel better, tell her Mrs Barlow had more than a few things to say about it. My ears are still ringing.”
Gideon nodded, hearing sincerity in the apology.
If he thought otherwise, he’d have broken the man’s nose himself, but it had just been bad timing.
And whilst it had been a risk to confide in them, even a little, he needed allies, and he believed they were good men.
Of course, he had thought the same about Ridley at first, so perhaps his instincts were not as reliable as he’d thought they were.
“Right, back to work then. Let’s try to get through the day with no mishaps.”
“Aye, Mr Bramwell.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Billy said, winking cheekily as they headed to the door.
Gideon snorted, waiting until they’d left the hut before groaning in pain and resting his forehead on the desk. “Oh, God, kill me now,” he muttered, and closed his eyes.