pulling Lord St. John out of his black temper and, failing that, to getting his lordship roaring drunk. In the last, they were successful, for Lord St. John was completely amenable.
At the end of the evening, Lord St. John’s friends stuffed him into a cab and accompanied him home. Supporting his lordship between them, Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton staggered up the steps of the viscount’s town house.
“We’ll have to pour him into bed,” grunted Mr. Underwood.
“Better that than hear that Sinjin blew a hole in some unfortunate,” observed Lord Heatherton.
“Lord, don’t you think I thought of that as well?” uttered Mr. Underwood scornfully, banging on the door while endeavoring to keep Lord St. John from slithering to the ground. “Though I suspect he’d much rather thrash the lady.”
“You don’t say. I never pegged Sinjin to be in the petticoat line,” said Lord Heatherton. He blinked rather owlishly as the door opened and the viscount’s butler peered out. “Craighton. Just the man we want.”
The butler had taken in the situation at a glance and opened the door wide, directing the gentlemen to help his lordship upstairs. Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton looked dubiously at the stairs, then at each other. Lord Heatherton shrugged. “Nothing for it. What set Sinjin off?”
“Lady Pothergill’s rout,” supplied Mr. Underwood, panting as he navigated upward.
“Ah, that explains it. One of m’mother’s cronies. Awful woman. Can’t think why her ladyship is so in vogue. Never has a decent layout,” said Lord Heatherton disapprovingly.
“Lady Althea likes Lady Pothergill,” said Mr. Underwood.
“Ah,” said Lord Heatherton, frowning heavily. Silence fell between the gentlemen until they had rounded the landing and were proceeding to the viscount’s bedroom. Lord Heatherton’s countenance suddenly cleared. “Ah!”
“Just so,” nodded Mr. Underwood.
The butler ran ahead to alert the viscount’s valet. The gentlemen tumbled Lord St. John onto his bed and Tibbs took over the task of making his lordship comfortable.
Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton contemplated the unconscious viscount for a moment. “Poor Sinjin. Much better to get drunk,” said Lord Heatherton.
Realizing that they had given over their charge into the capable hands of the viscount’s valet and butler, they withdrew from the bedroom and left the town house, weaving slightly as they made their way down the sidewalk.
Chapter 6
The terraced residences in Islington were respectable addresses, though so far removed from the haunts of the fashionable as to be almost another world. Night had fallen and at one quiet house the occupants were enjoying their after-dinner respite from the demands of the day.
In the drawing room, candles had been lit to augment the glow from the hearth fire so that there would be no need for the elderly gentleman or the young lady to strain their eyes against competing shadows.
The portly gentleman rustled the newspaper. “Here is an interesting item. The Duke of Alton has wed. The gentleman must be twenty years my senior! I wonder what his grace’s heir thinks of it. Nay, I suspect I may guess. ‘Tis a wonderment, don’t you think, Mary?”
“Indeed it is, Papa,” agreed the young lady opposite the wide-striped settee, without looking up from her embroidery. Beside her was a basket holding silks of various colors, folded work, a small scissors and assorted other supplies. She reached for the scissors and snipped a finished thread. Deftly knotting the end of the silk on her needle, she started a new bit of stitching on her hoop.
Mr. Pepperidge peered around the edge of his newspaper, his spectacles glinting in the firelight. He regarded his eldest child with strong fondness. She was a comely young woman, her brown hair smoothed into a coronet of braids, her capable fingers evenly and surely drawing the needle through the fabric on the embroidery hoop. The design she
At the end of the evening, Lord St. John’s friends stuffed him into a cab and accompanied him home. Supporting his lordship between them, Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton staggered up the steps of the viscount’s town house.
“We’ll have to pour him into bed,” grunted Mr. Underwood.
“Better that than hear that Sinjin blew a hole in some unfortunate,” observed Lord Heatherton.
“Lord, don’t you think I thought of that as well?” uttered Mr. Underwood scornfully, banging on the door while endeavoring to keep Lord St. John from slithering to the ground. “Though I suspect he’d much rather thrash the lady.”
“You don’t say. I never pegged Sinjin to be in the petticoat line,” said Lord Heatherton. He blinked rather owlishly as the door opened and the viscount’s butler peered out. “Craighton. Just the man we want.”
The butler had taken in the situation at a glance and opened the door wide, directing the gentlemen to help his lordship upstairs. Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton looked dubiously at the stairs, then at each other. Lord Heatherton shrugged. “Nothing for it. What set Sinjin off?”
“Lady Pothergill’s rout,” supplied Mr. Underwood, panting as he navigated upward.
“Ah, that explains it. One of m’mother’s cronies. Awful woman. Can’t think why her ladyship is so in vogue. Never has a decent layout,” said Lord Heatherton disapprovingly.
“Lady Althea likes Lady Pothergill,” said Mr. Underwood.
“Ah,” said Lord Heatherton, frowning heavily. Silence fell between the gentlemen until they had rounded the landing and were proceeding to the viscount’s bedroom. Lord Heatherton’s countenance suddenly cleared. “Ah!”
“Just so,” nodded Mr. Underwood.
The butler ran ahead to alert the viscount’s valet. The gentlemen tumbled Lord St. John onto his bed and Tibbs took over the task of making his lordship comfortable.
Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton contemplated the unconscious viscount for a moment. “Poor Sinjin. Much better to get drunk,” said Lord Heatherton.
Realizing that they had given over their charge into the capable hands of the viscount’s valet and butler, they withdrew from the bedroom and left the town house, weaving slightly as they made their way down the sidewalk.
Chapter 6
The terraced residences in Islington were respectable addresses, though so far removed from the haunts of the fashionable as to be almost another world. Night had fallen and at one quiet house the occupants were enjoying their after-dinner respite from the demands of the day.
In the drawing room, candles had been lit to augment the glow from the hearth fire so that there would be no need for the elderly gentleman or the young lady to strain their eyes against competing shadows.
The portly gentleman rustled the newspaper. “Here is an interesting item. The Duke of Alton has wed. The gentleman must be twenty years my senior! I wonder what his grace’s heir thinks of it. Nay, I suspect I may guess. ‘Tis a wonderment, don’t you think, Mary?”
“Indeed it is, Papa,” agreed the young lady opposite the wide-striped settee, without looking up from her embroidery. Beside her was a basket holding silks of various colors, folded work, a small scissors and assorted other supplies. She reached for the scissors and snipped a finished thread. Deftly knotting the end of the silk on her needle, she started a new bit of stitching on her hoop.
Mr. Pepperidge peered around the edge of his newspaper, his spectacles glinting in the firelight. He regarded his eldest child with strong fondness. She was a comely young woman, her brown hair smoothed into a coronet of braids, her capable fingers evenly and surely drawing the needle through the fabric on the embroidery hoop. The design she
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