Chapter 6 #2
“I swear to all that is hale and holy,” Keaton grumbled while shoving off his frock coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. “If Lord Barnstorm reintroduces a third version of that bill, I will burn the House down to the ground.”
“And I might just help you do it,” Vincent said as he threw back a mouthful of brandy.
Benedict’s head snapped between them. “I do not know what astonishes me more; you—” he jabbed a finger at Keaton, “—saying that you’d sign yourself for death at Tyburn or you—” he pointed to Vincent, “—for agreeing to help him with it.”
Parliament had been nothing but hellish that week, with lords introducing this bill and that, which would only extend the already bloated debt, tax the lowest of the low into the dirt, and enrich their pockets.
Still, at the end of a long day of talking to old curmudgeons and doddering old fools, trying to convince them no, they did not need more troops nor build more warships, nor did they need to commission more pirates as privateers; the work did wear one down.
Slumping into a seat, Benedict took a mouthful of his whisky and groaned, “This is the last time I sit in for my uncle in Commons. Devil and damn, it is infuriating.”
Vincent’s lips ticked up at a corner as he swirled the liquid, angling the glass this way and that, to let the light play on the shifting amber hues. “Then Quorum would drive you to Bedlam.”
“Stuff it,” Benedict grunted. “Quorum is three people. Surely three people can come to a vote better than the utter pandemonium we had today.”
“You’d be surprised,” Vincent muttered.
“If you don’t mind, I want to turn the direction to an easier topic,” Keaton said, while pinning Vincent with a needling look. “Where were you during your ball the other night? I searched for you everywhere, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“Did you check my bedchambers?” Vincent asked easily while gesturing for a waiter to refresh his glass.
“Was I supposed to?”
“Then you did not search everywhere,” he replied enigmatically.
The two shared a look before Benedict grinned devilishly. “Who is the lucky lady, and do we know her?”
“No,” Vincent said shortly.
“A challenge, then! I’m sure we can find out who graced your bed,” Keaton scraped his chair closer, “all we have to do is—”
“You will not and you shall not,” Vincent said sternly. “Unlike the two of you, I much prefer to keep my affairs private.”
“Oh, please. You are as much of a wastrel and a rake as we are,” Benedict snorted, then mock-flinched at Vincent’s glare. “Well, perhaps not a wastrel.”
Ignoring his cohorts, Vincent dropped a hand to his tender lower half.
A week since the stabbing, and the wound had closed well enough thanks to Emma’s needlework, but the muscle beneath was still knitting itself together at its own stubborn pace.
He could walk, sit, ride a horse if the beast was gentle about it.
Anything beyond that was a fool’s errand, and the mask in his drawer would have to wait until his body was no longer a liability. The last thing he needed was to bleed out in some alleyway because he’d moved too fast and torn himself open again.
While the rational thing to do now was to go to a physician to have the stitches replaced with the proper sheep gut… he did not want to do so.
He wanted to see Emma again and have her replace the stitches. And for three reasons at that.
First, if she might have seen and recognized the mask he’d hastily ripped from his head and dropped to the floor, it would lead to a disastrous chain of events. The Phantom of the Great Wen. A Duke? Christ, that was ineligible.
Second, he certainly did not want anyone else to learn of his injury. If he went to see Duncan Fraser, his family physician, there would be questions; questions he did not want to answer.
And then there was the third. A part of him withered at the last, selfish reason he wanted to see her.
And if he were being sincere, it may have had something to do with how sublimely beautiful Emma was. Her demure oval face. Her pretty red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and framed a visage with prominent cheekbones, a piquant little chin, and a temptingly curved mouth.
No, her attractiveness had nothing to do with this.
This was all business and self-preservation.
“Well, ignoring that,” Keaton sighed, “it’s my turn to host, and I would rather publish all my secrets in the Times than open my home to a gaggle of strangers. It’s a garden party on my grounds. You are both invited.”
Instead of paying his full attention, Vincent was preoccupied with considering whether he should try to get more records out of Earl Ballard, or if he should focus his energy on the main target, Gibbs Custor, the mastermind behind his father’s deception.
Most likely the man has destroyed what I couldn’t find and has already alerted Custor about the incident.
“Arundel?” Benedict’s needling tone dragged Vincent back to the present.
“What were you blathering about?” he asked.
“My garden party,” Keaton said. “You’re invited.”
Instantly, Vincent’s stomach roiled.