Barbara Metzger by Lady Whiltons Wedding

excuse to retire—arrived before Albert. They didn’t.
    The baron hobbled into the parlor supported by a heavy bone-handled cane, looking more raddled and rheumy-eyed than ever, aged well beyond his years. Lord Hollister’s sister gasped when he brushed past her, and held a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose.
    “Niminy-piminy female,” Albert wheezed, sinking into the most comfortable chair in the room, the one Daphne’s mother had just vacated to flee to Lord Hollister’s side on the sofa. From his place near the fire, Uncle Albert took out his quizzing glass and surveyed the company, his gaze lingering longest on Daphne. He licked his lips. Lord Hollister’s sister drew in another quick breath of air, which in turn drew the most ignoble nobleman’s attention.
    “What, trying to fix m’interest, are you? Too bad your husband left you as poor as a church mouse, else I’d offer you a tumble, even if you are as shriveled as a prune.”
    The lady ran from the room, weeping. Her brother, the earl, said, “Here now, Baron, there’s no call to be insulting the ladies.”
    Albert laughed, or wheezed—it was hard to tell which. “Thought I was payin’ a compliment. Don’t expect the old bat gets many offers these days.” Before Lord Hollister could decide on an appropriate response, feeling that planting the decrepit man a facer was beneath his dignity, Albert turned to Graydon. “You, boy. Get me a drink.”
    “I’ll just go see what’s keeping the tea tray, shall I?” Lady Whilton hopped up again.
    “Sit down, sister. I ain’t about to maudle my insides with that catlap. I said I want a drink.” He pounded his cane into the floor next to his chair, making the china shepherdesses on the nearby étagère shake, along with Lady Whilton.
    Not Cousin Harriet. She headed for the bellpull. “I’ll tell Ohlman to bring coffee. That’s what you need, you old sot, not any more Blue Ruin.”
    Albert sneered at her through his looking glass as if she were a cockroach. “What’s that Friday-faced old sapphist doing here? Get out, woman. It’s my house and drink what I want. Get out, I say.”
    Harriet stormed to the door. “Don’t worry, sirrah, I wouldn’t stay under the same roof as you. One of your so-called social diseases might be catching.”
    “In your dreams, woman, in your dreams.”
    Cousin Harriet left in a huff as Ohlman entered with the tea cart. Daphne didn’t know whether to go after her or stay to comfort her mother, who was sniffling into Lord Hollister’s handkerchief. She poured a cup of tea for Mama first.
    “Where’s my drink, damn it?” Uncle Albert thundered, slamming his cane down again.
    Daphne started to ask how he liked his tea, but Graydon, who’d been standing near the mantel, reached for a decanter and poured out a glass. He handed it to the older man, saying, “Here, Baron, some fine brandy. No need to disturb the house.” Then he came to stand behind Daphne’s chair.
    “Why did you give him brandy?” Daphne whispered. “Anyone can see he’s had more than enough to drink.”
    “Yes, but this way he’s liable to pass out. Otherwise he’ll just get meaner. Trust me, I’ve seen enough drunks in my day.”
    Well, she certainly hadn’t, so Daphne held her peace while Uncle Albert sloshed down his drink, then rapped the glass on the chair arm for more. To distract him, Daphne said, “Mr. Pomeroy wasn’t clear on the details of the robbery. It was a whole band of cutthroats that attacked you and your valet?”
    “Aye, a murderous band of road pirates.” He turned to growl at Lord Hollister. “And if you blue bloods did your job and took better care of the highways, none of it would have happened, by Jupiter.”
    No one cared to mention that Albert’s blood, what wasn’t turned to vinegar, was as blue as anyone’s, and as a major landholder, he was equally responsible for seeing to the roads. Daphne just thought to keep him talking until he lost consciousness,