Page 3 of The Good Girl's Guide to Rakes
“Take us to him,” Kieran said.
He and Finn followed the reverend through a small door near the chancel, and then through a narrow hallway, before they reached another door. Crashes and swearing came from inside, and a noise that sounded like a man attempting to hurl his body against something heavy.
The vicar shot Kieran and Finn a worried look, most likely concerned that his vestry—whatever that could be—was in the process of being destroyed. He knocked on the door gently.
“Mr. Kilburn,” the reverend said tentatively. “It’s Reverend Hodgson, and—”
“Piss off,” Dom shouted within. “I don’t want any of your homilies, and your wine is swill.”
Reverend Hodgson blanched.
“Let me handle this.” Kieran placed his hand on the vicar’s shoulder and urged the man away from the door. He pounded his fist against the wood and bellowed, “Dom. It’s Kieran and Finn. Stop acting like a ruddy ass and open the sodding door.”
There was a long pause, before his friend muttered a grudging “Come in.”
“Best to wait with the congregation, Reverend,” Finn said.
The man shot Finn a grateful nod before dashing away, seeking sanctuary in his own church. Once the vicar was gone, Kieran opened the door—slowly, in case Dom had gotten his hands on some of the church’s silver and attempted to hurl it at Kieran’s or Finn’s head.
Cautiously, Kieran stepped into the vestry and let out a low whistle. “I thought the damage you did to the Twin Bastards Taphouse was bad.”
“Jesus, Dom,” Finn added, “did youkickthis bookcase apart?”
There was no answer except a low, animal groan that originated from a man crouched in a corner of the chamber. The man had to be Dom because few people with such massive shoulders wore exquisitely tailored coats straight from Bond Street. Those shoulders were a legacy of Dom’s formative years spent laboring in the London docks.
“Fucking bloody hell,” Dom growled without rising. “What a goddamned disaster.”
It was a measure of how agitated Dom had to be because he’d reverted to the rough Cockney accent his family had tried to erase from their speech. The Kilburns had been mostly successful in eradicating traces of their humble beginnings, but when Dom was deep in his cups or especially upset, he reverted to the pronunciation he’d spoken with for the first eighteen years of his life.
“Ain’t you going to chastise me for cursing in a church?” he threw over his shoulder.
Kieran chuckled. “If you’re seeking penance, you’ve invited the wrong brothers into the vestry.” He approached his friend warily, as one would approach a maddened bull. The question remained whether or not Kieran would have to shoot Dom to put him out of his misery. “Done a fair job of leveling the church, though, so I commend you for that.”
“I don’t possess the observational brains of a Bow Street runner,” Finn said slowly, picking up a few pieces of a shattered table, “but it appears you’re a trifle agitated.”
Dom made another bestial noise.
Carefully, as if he was truly facing a feral animal, Kieran laid his hand upon Dom’s shoulder. Dom immediately shook free of his touch.
“Don’t be kind to me,” he snarled. “Don’t you fucking dare be kind to me. I don’t goddamned deserve it.”
Kieran shared a mystified, worried look with his brother. Given that Finn made and lost fortunes at the gaming tables by hiding his emotions behind an unreadable facade, the fact that he didn’t bother to hide his concern served to ratchet up Kieran’s own unease.
Kieran drew in a breath, trying to catch a whiff of spirits that surely wafted up from his friend. If Dom was cup-shot, it might explain his behavior, since, with enough strong drink in him, he had a tendency to become even more pugnacious. Mystifyingly, no smell of whisky or gin clung to him.
However, a touch of alcohol might help steady what surely had to be a common case of anxiety before a wedding. Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, Kieran pulled out a slim flask and tapped it against Dom’s back. “A better medicine than being bled.”
Dom took the flask in his shaking hand and swiftly downed a swig before he handed it back to Kieran, who took his own sip before offering it to Finn.
“Don’t drain it, you son of a bitch,” Kieran muttered as his brother tipped his head back to drink deeply.
“How dare you call our mother a bitch,” Finn said, throwing the now-empty flask at Kieran, who snatched the vessel before it struck his chest.
A clock on a shelf struck a quarter to the hour. Given that the wedding was supposed to happen in fifteen minutes, the fact that the groom was hunkered in a ravaged vestry and continued to make incoherent sounds of distress did not bode well. A little inducement to get started might be in order.
“You should see Willa,” Kieran said cheerfully. “Pretty as a raven against a snowfield. All this turmoil will have been forgotten once she’s your wife.”
At the mention of his future bride’s name, Dom leapt to his feet, and threw his fist into a nearby cabinet. The furniture trembled and listed, but Kieran shoved it upright before it could collapse.
