She had known he’d survived Waterloo.
She had known he’d come through a hero, too.
Ferocity … valor … the battle won.
Lord Branwell continued eating, bite after relentless bite.
“And he went on to secure the Continent,” continued Sir Abstrupus. “Then our hero marched to Africa.” He settled back into his chair and steepled his fingers before him, as if to allow his guest to fill in the details.
His guest clearly had no such inclination as his empty plate was replaced by the second course—a fricassee of sweetbreads. Sir Abstrupus’s favorite dish. Lord Branwell stuck his fork in and immediately took a mouthful.
“Of course.” Sir Abstrupus gave his head a shake. He was never one to be discouraged by another’s discomfort. “I suppose a soldier can be lucky or good for only so long.”
Ferocity … valor … the battle lost.
Their host dug into his sweetbreads with alacrity, and though Artemis bore no good will toward the man opposite her, she only just resisted calling the old troublemaker a nodcock.
“And your dawn swim?” asked Sir Abstrupus. “Was it a revivifying one today?”
Artemis’s brow gathered.
Dawn swim.
That was it.
That was why they’d encountered one another in the woods yesterday.
Lord Branwell grunted.
As with every other subject, he offered no further discourse.
“About your leg injury, I have a question to put to you,” continued Sir Abstrupus around a bite of food. “Does swimming in the sea help? Seems the cold would do more harm to one’s nether bits than good to one’s leg.” He laughed, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Unless, of course, one has no further use for one’s nethers.”
Artemis gasped, as both her own mortification and second-hand mortification, too, flashed hot through her.
She couldn’t look at Lord Branwell.
She couldn’tnotlook at him.
Deliberately, he set his fork down and looked their host directly in the eye. “As it happens, Sir Abstrupus,” he spoke, as if each word were carefully curated, “my nethers remain in perfect working order and may have a use yet.”
Again, Artemis gasped.
But not with mortification.
It was an altogether different sort of heat that struck through her.
Lord Branwell’s nethers … she and they had an association.
And,oh, did she know what use they could be put to.
She might never breathe again.
CHAPTER FOUR
My nethers remain in perfect working order and may have a use yet.
Words Bran shouldn’t have spoken.
