She giggled wildly, a riot of blonde curls falling around her face. “Darling, I need more wine,” she slurred. “My bottle is qui…very…quite empty. Emptyish. Quitish empty. Oh dear, am I speaking Latin?Et tu, Brute? It has been so long…”
She punctuated her rambling with a hiccup. And then another.
“The ladies are not my witnesses,” he managed.
Bloody hell, he knew Barlowe possessed something of a wild nature and a complete disregard for polite society, but this was a drunken fête that looked more like an ode to Bacchus, or—for Christ’s sake—anorgy, than anything else. He would have thought such a spectacle beyond his friend. They were of an age, and while Barlowe was damned rebellious, he had been rather somber of late. Calm and sober enough for Hudson to entrust his own wife to him!
Which was a decision he regretted increasingly by the moment…
And just where the devil was Barlowe, anyway?
He searched the room and saw more nipples and ankles and knees, along with some lascivious kissing between a clearly drunken gentleman and lady. At last, he spied his friend in the corner, a half-empty bottle of wine in hand, a female in his lap. The lady was straddling him, sucking on his neck. Barlowe’s necktie was hanging limply over one shoulder, his coat long since shucked, his waistcoat gone. The top few buttons of his shirt had been plucked free of their moorings, and his wheat-blond hair looked as if every lady present had run her fingers through it.
What the hell?
“Hudson!” Barlowe called, without rising or bothering to remove the woman from his lap. “Join us.”
She giggled and bit his ear. Was her bodice pulled down and her corset undone? She shifted, and Hudson was treated to the unfortunate sight of a nipple, confirming his suspicions.
Good, sweet Lord in heaven.
“The three of you may wish to await me in the carriage,” he said to Elysande, her father, and brother with as much calm as he could muster.
In truth, the sight of his trusted friend deeply in his cups, surrounded by women of questionable morals and scarce clothing, shook him. Yes, Barlowe was indeed his most trusted witness. His most trustedfriendas well. They had met by chance one evening, when Barlowe had been thoroughly soused and nearly robbed and stuck with a blade for his attempts at fighting off the thief intent upon enriching himself.
Hudson had defended him, and while Barlowe was a member of the aristocracy, he had not even made that discovery until several years into their friendship. They had met for ale at taverns, had convened at chophouses and anywhere else they could manage. Neither of them had asked questions of the other, and for some time, their friendship had been anonymous. Barlowe had not known Hudson was a Scotland Yard detective, and he had not known Barlowe was the brother of an earl, third in line to inherit. It would not have made a difference, but the length of time it had taken the two of them to share their true names and paths had solidified their friendship.
Certainly for Hudson, it had cemented his trust in Barlowe.
A trust he was beginning to wonder whether or not, given the current state of his friend’s life, had been grievously misplaced.
His wife’s hand was on his elbow, her grip tight. “Hudson?”
How to explain? There was a scene before them he had not anticipated. One he did not understand. Barlowe was not the sort to succumb to excess in such outrageous fashion. At least, Hudson had not believed him to be.
“Go to the carriage,” he urged her. “I shall speak to Barlowe myself.”
“Something is wrong,” she said, echoing his thoughts.
“Damned right it is,” Leydon clipped. “If this man is indicative of the quality of your alibi, I despair for you, Wycombe.”
“Come, Ellie,” Royston was saying to Elysande, attempting to steer her away from the hedonism on display before them.
But it was too late, and his wife was not the sort of lady who accepted the decree of anyone. Most particularly not her brother or father. He could not say he blamed her. Indeed, he admired her persistence, her strength. Hell, he admired her. Full stop.
“Mr. Barlowe seems distressed,” Elysande was saying.
“He isn’t Mr. Barlowe any longer, love,” called the blonde who had been flashing her nether bits without a hint of shame. “He is Lord Anglesey now.”
“Anglesey?” Hudson frowned, that sinking sense of dread digging deeper.
Surely it could not be. His friend had two older brothers, one of whom was the current earl.
“You heard it,” Barlowe said, raising his bottle of wine. “My brothers died in a boating accident yesterday morning. Some stupid bloody yacht race, a bad batch of wind, a crash with another boat, and they were sunk. Or was it two yesterday mornings ago? Christ, I’ve forgotten. They’re both quite dead, however. You are looking at the current Earl of Anglesey.”
Hudson viewed the scene of dissipation before him with a new clarity. Barlowe—make that Anglesey—had been estranged from his elder brothers. Despite that, their sudden deaths must have come as a tremendous shock.
“I am sorry,” he told his friend. “If there is any way I can be of service, please do let me know.”
