Page 6 of Any Rogue Will Do
Ethan hefted his friend out of the chair and led him to a table near the window. “The game was vingt-et-un.”
“Oh. I guess that changes things.” Cal collapsed into a chair, the seat barely catching his backside. “Any news on the lovely Lady Charlotte?” Rolling hisLs must have been vastly entertaining, because Cal sat flicking his tongue for a moment before refocusing on their conversation.
“I haven’ seen her since she told me tae go tae the devil.” Not that he hadn’t looked. Every time he entered one of the public rooms, he searched for her dark curls. During their visit with the brewmaster he’d gleaned valuable insight from the local brewery’s layout, but she’d lingered in the back of his mind. All plans to leave for London were washed away when the rain wreaked havoc on the streets. They were stuck here. With her.
“What are you going to do about it?” Cal asked with his typical cheer. “Perhaps this is your chance to grovel—a lot. I would recommend the most impressive level of groveling ever seen by man or beast. A grovel worthy of such a damn spectacular bosom.”
“I owe her an apology at the very least.” The idea took hold, and he held tight to the hope it brought. His behavior during those early years after inheriting had provided ample reasons to make amends to several people since. If she forgave him, it would be one more piece of absolution toward his pile of sins. If nothing else, he knew the act of apologizing and owning his actions would go a long way toward soothing the painful memories he carried.
“Lucky dog. You have the opportunity to tell a woman you were a drunken idiot.” A hiccup punctuated Cal’s teasing.
“Back then I was a drunken idiot with alarming frequency.”
“You’re sober as a judge now. At least one of us is. In those days, we viewed too many nights through the bottom of a bottle.” He held up the whisky as if making a point. “Haven’t imbibed like this in a long time.”
True. It had been quite a while since he’d seen Cal like this. “I’ll have tae wait for an opportunity, I suppose.” Ethan held out a hand for the bottle. “Do you think you’ve had enough? You’ll hate your head in the morning.”
With a sigh, Cal pushed the bottle of whisky toward Ethan with one finger. “Fine. You may have to run her to ground and make an opportunity. The onus falls on you, my friend. You made her the laughingstock of London. When you tell everyone a girl is dull as dishwater, don’t expect a great deal of goodwill from that corner.”
“I never said she was dull. I said—”
Calvin raised his glass in the air as if reciting Shakespeare. “Witless, with nothing to offer but a dowry and a passably pretty face. She’s a Paper Doll Princess. Dress her up, then carry her in your pocket—along with the fortune you gained in exchange for a lifetime of boredom.” Amber liquid sloshed over the rim onto the table. Cal grimaced at the mess and shoved his glass aside. “You, my friend, were a bit of a prick.”
Studying his long legs and dirty boots, Ethan winced. “Aye, I was.” There had been a clear moment after he’d said those awful words when regret had churned in his belly, threatening to eject the drinks he’d imbibed. Even as he’d tried to backtrack, to call back the foolish words spoken to the men he’d been trying so hard to impress, those so-called friends became wagging tongues. It wasn’t long before the gossip rags got wind of his cruelty. The nickname spread faster than anyone could have predicted. Highlights papered shop windows with damning ink sketches. Each morning, as Lady Charlotte’s visage appeared in unflattering cartoons, society lapped up every drop of the scandal over tea and toast. And Ethan? The men thought him hilarious, demanding more of his biting commentary. That night had set the stage for both his and Lady Charlotte’s reputations, neither of them liking their new role.
The irony lay in the fact that Lady Charlotte had been the perfect debutante. The expectations of her station were clear, and she lived up to them. Set on a course to find a husband, she’d been ready to do her duty to her family and further the blue-blooded aristocratic values of England. God save the king, and all that.
He’d needed her money. The new title had come with crippling debt, and like a young fool, he’d seen her as an easy way to save the estate. It was a cold comfort that he hadn’t fallen into the trap of being a full-fledged fortune hunter. Any old fortune wouldn’t do—he wanted to like his wife, to desire her. In a perfect world, he’d have a love match like his parents, with a conveniently hefty dowry.
Licking a drop of ale from his lip, Ethan scanned the ceiling. She was up there somewhere, injured, but would be mad as a wet cat if he showed up to check on her. How had the doctor’s visit gone? It would take a physician with a steady hand to avoid a scar like the jagged silvery-white line on Ethan’s shoulder. For certain, her coachman needed a doctor who would try his damnedest to keep the leg intact. Unlike that drunkard who’d been there after Ethan’s accident. That hack had taken his friend and passenger Connor’s limb with no more thought than he’d give to carving a Christmas ham.
Although he’d made sure the rescue team brought her trunk to her room, the need to do more nagged at him. But then, many things about Lady Charlotte Wentworth lingered in his brain.
The memory of the first time he’d seen her hadn’t faded despite the years. One look at those dark eyes across a dance floor, and he’d proudly scribbled his new title on her dance card at every gathering after that. On several occasions during the following weeks, he’d brought flowers to her home during calling hours, like a proper suitor. But when they spoke outside the confines of a waltz, she lacked the fire he’d witnessed today. Little by little, that initial attraction waned, replaced by disillusionment.
The day after the prime minister was shot, there was that moment when she thanked him for getting her away from the hordes of people clogging the roads. Especially given their previous interactions, he would have expected her to be a shaken mess. Instead, she kept her head in the face of a dangerous mob and worked with him to get out of there. That cool determination made him think perhaps there was more to her. He hoped to peel back those layers and know her better, and his attraction flared back to life.
When he called on her the next day, her father put an end to Ethan’s intentions. The earl didn’t mince words. Ethan wasn’t good enough for the likes of her, and his advances weren’t welcomed by Lady Charlotte or her father. The earl called him a fortune hunter to his face—something for which he had no rebuttal. The bouquet he’d brought for Lady Charlotte that morning was much appreciated by the fruit seller on the corner.
If he gave her flowers now, she would probably try to shove them down his gullet.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? Lord, you’re a case. If you could see your expression, you’d laugh.” Even drunk, Cal knew him too well. It wasn’t only Lady Charlotte in his head now, but the events of the past that haunted him.
The circle of lads he’d called friends had encouraged more foolishness, until that awful evening when he’d agreed to race, wanting to show off for his visiting clansman, Connor. They were drunk. Of course they were. That race and the subsequent accident had nearly killed Connor. All because of Ethan’s poor judgment. The same poor judgment that had destroyed Lady Charlotte’s Season. Shame wrapped around him with the memories, and Ethan sighed, accepting the emotion as his due. All he wanted to do was go enjoy his quiet room and read a book. “You’ve dipped a wee bit deep today, aye? Maybe you should go upstairs and rest before dinner.”
“Yes, I’m drunk. Drunkety-drunk-drunk. But at least I’m not pouting over a woman.” Cal stifled a belch behind a fist, broke wind, then giggled. The Drunk’s Trifecta.
Drunkety-drunk-drunk Cal spoke the truth.
Years ago Ethan had been a shallow arse, more concerned with Lady Charlotte’s bosom than with her brains, and too lazy to discover what was beneath her faux calm. Moments ago, those same breasts had been a topic of conversation, so perhaps he was a lost cause as a human being. These past five years of living like a monk might have been for naught, because he clearly hadn’t become a better person.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Ethan sighed. “Come along, Cal. Let’s pour you into your bed. Have a lie-down. Perhaps you’ll be sober enough by dinner.”
***
Patrick had awakened long enough for Darling to force one of the concoctions left by the doctor into him, then passed out again.
The warm coziness of Lottie’s bedroom had felt comfortable for only a short time after Lottie’s trunks arrived. With Darling at Patrick’s bedside, the solitude of Lottie’s room just felt empty. Noise, chaos, and watching her fellow travelers with a sense of anonymity sounded like the ideal distraction.
