A Dram Is Good Company
Anight without moon had descended upon London, the faint glow of streetlamps casting indistinct shadows on the damp pavement. As Lupin trotted down Orchard Street and towards the Portman Square Mews, Miles felt as restless as a compass needle struggling to find north.
His thoughts lurched from pillar to post as he recalled all that Verity had told him this evening: her terror, the asylum, those clod-headed relatives, and her reasons for forsaking him.
Lupin slowed to a walk without command and turned into the mews.
His feelings for Verity would not be denied, no matter her assertion that they could not be.
He was an earl, yes, but he’d also been a soldier and when one had viewed the destruction of war, one also yearned to create something beautiful in its wake, and he wished for nothing more than to court Verity anew, to know if they could still create that something beautiful together.
A continuation of what had begun when young.
Miles’ steadfast horse had come to a halt on the cobbles outside the stables where a lantern glowed from above the double doors left open for them, so he dismounted, roping the reins over Lupin’s head. Surely he could persuade Verit–
“C’tain! Get down!”
A crack of pistol.
Air rushed at the back of his neck as he crouched and his horse skittered, hooves clattering, the shot echoing down the narrow mews alley.
Miles wrenched his own pistol from his greatcoat and scrambled for cover, saw Lynch, a finger stabbing to the far end of the mews as he tugged the horse into the stables and safety.
Swivelling on his haunches, Miles yanked out a second pistol but all was pitch, the night ink blotting out all evils.
“Just a shadow,” hissed Lynch from the stable door. “But I heard the cock of a pistol.”
Miles cursed; he’d been caught off guard, dreaming like a bloody schoolboy.
With a flick of head to his comrade, they peeled to opposite flanks of the mews, melding into the shadows as they advanced towards the far end.
More in hope, of course, as the jackanapes would have scarpered as soon as the shot had blasted off.
The western end of the mews met Portman Street, streetlamps every fifty feet or so but he and Lynch kept to the murk. Listened.
No one.
Not even a–
Footfall. Rapid. Breath sawing in and out and Miles spun, held his pistol aloft, cocked…
A black-garbed figure halted in the lamplight, face raised.
“Dair?” Miles’ arm dropped and he strode forward, joined him in the citrine light. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“On my way to see you. Heard a shot from Portman Square,” he wheezed. “Thought it was the Horse Guard barracks, then saw a chap running from the mews so I followed but lost him in St George’s.”
Lynch grunted. “Wot did he look like?”
“Cloaked. And it’s dark, for hell’s sake.” Dair grabbed hold of Miles’ arm. “That shot was meant for you, wasn’t it?”
He nodded, acrid pistol smoke still lingering in his nostrils. “Damn right it was. If not for Lynch’s shout…”
“Whoreson,” muttered Dair.
“Oy!”
“Not you, Lynch, my fine fellow.” Dair peered into Miles’ face. “You look fit for the grave, Cousin. No offence. Let’s repair to the study. I could do with a tipple to recover.”
As could Miles. It had been one hell of a day but… “We need to search for the bullet.”
“I’ll do it, C’tain,” said Lynch. “I heard the direction of shot. Just need ter send a message to Dempster at the Wellington as he’s there buying a pint with my name on it.”
Miles nodded his thanks. “If you’ve no luck with the bullet in this dark though, get yourself to the pub. We’ll search in the morning.”
With a tip of cap, Lynch turned for the shadows and Miles turned to his cousin.
“Whisky,” they said in tandem.
“Got any of that fine Glenlivet left?”
“No, you’ve quaffed it all.” Miles stared at his reflection within the mirror above the fireplace, the heat from the hearth warming his bones.
An inch to the left and Lynch would have been laying him out for a burial shroud.
An inch to the left and this whoreson would be congratulating himself on a clean shot.
An inch to the left and Jeremy would be earl.
An inch to the left and Verity would be in black. At least, he hoped she would.
For a soldier, the thought of death ought not to unnerve him.
He’d lived beside bullet, smoke and fallen comrades for six years.
Yet this was not the impersonal nature of war but a considered and deliberate attempt on his life.
And tonight, in one brief moment, the difference between life and death had been no more than that inch to the left.
It focused one’s thoughts rather.
Dair lifted one of the decanters to the candlelight. “Still, this cheap Lowlands Bladnoch stuff will serve until you smuggle down some more.”
“Cheap? It’s taxed to the bloody hilt.” Miles turned as Dair unstoppered the decanter.
His cousin handed over a brimming glass before his breath released in a whistle and he seated himself on the settee. “How many attempts is that now? He…or she is making a damn poor job of it.”
Was he jesting? With Alasdair, it was often difficult to tell. “Which is worthy of a toast, is it not?”
“Of course.” And Dair tipped his glass towards Miles’ own.
A dull throb started to build behind Miles’ eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“At first, I passed the mishaps off as ill luck since arriving in London, but when those thugs attacked me, I started taking precautions, considered anyone who might wish me ill.” He exhaled slowly.
“I admit, I still deemed it could all be coincidence but tonight proved once and for all that someone wants me dead and they no longer have the patience to disguise it as an accident.” He swivelled for the mirror once more, wondered what the hell to do next.
Dair’s reflection scrunched a nose. “Might be prudent to stay away from the ladies for a while. In fact, everyone.”
Miles scowled. “I had the same thought.” And slugged back half the whisky in a single gulp, which failed to deaden the acute pain at the thought of not seeing Verity.
Somewhile later…
“So,” continued Dair, glass wafting around as though a heavenly hand might replenish it, “did you seduce Miss Seymour at Kew, as I thought?”
The cheap Bladnoch stuff was almost gone. A plate of ham brought in by Fairfax polished off. Boots discarded.
“No.” Well, not exactly.
“Poor show. What did you do then?”
“We…talked of the past.”
“Did you get answers?”
Miles gave a nod. “But there was more…much more to it than I thought.”
“Isn’t there always.” Dair stared moodily into his glass. “Do you want me to pay a call on her? Explain your forthcoming absence with some tale?”
Hell, no.
“I appreciate the offer but I’ll compose a letter to her instead.” He left the comfort of the desk chair, grabbed the poker and stabbed the embers of the fire. “But…I’m not too good with words.”
“Well, if I’m in need of decent verbiage for a lady, I borrow it – Byron. Shelley. Byrne has a nice turn of phrase although he needs to cheer up a bit.”
“What are you wittering on about?” Miles turned. “Those poets are all romantic claptrap and I wasn’t planning on declaring my affections by letter, just that I have business matters to attend to and so will be unable to call upon her for a week…or so.”
“‘Not too good with words doesn’t begin to describe that letter. Feeble, more like.” Dair traced the rim of his glass. “And I didn’t mention affections. You did. So you like her, no?”
Like? “Well, yes. Of course, I like Miss Seymour.”
“Hmm. And you liked Miss Seymour when you were young too?”
“As I told you.”
“Hmm. And you both like all that plant stuff?”
Miles merely nodded, the conversation beginning to feel like a maze with no exit.
Dair closed his eyes as though the gears of his mind were finally grinding to a conclusion. “Then you need to express all this…like for her in a more roundabout and poetic fashion as blaming business matters for your absence is tantamount to expressing you have no such like of her.”
“Is it?”
“You’ve been a soldier for too long. In London, no one says what they mean. You must interpret and then respond not saying what you want to mean either.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“The Ton doesn’t make sense.”
“Yet you mingle within it.”
A shrug. “Nowhere else to be.”
Miles watched his cousin in silence for a moment: there was something untethered about Dair of late, reminding him of a ship that’d lost its compass, the night too overcast to view the stars.
“You’ll have to help me write it then. But nothing mawkish. I’m an ex-soldier not some starry-eyed mooncalf.”
Dair rolled his eyes but his lips curved. “Leave it to me…”