At last, Zachary took a sip of his port. It was quite good. Sweet and yet with a refined note. Probably quite dear for whichever Earl of Anglesey had acquired it long before him. The price did not matter. The effect it had on his faculties, however, did.
He decided, then and there, that he was going to get thoroughly sotted this evening.
It was the only way to keep his conscience quiet over the manner in which he had so thoroughly debauched his betrothed. That Izzy was an innocent, and that she was also the sister of Wycombe’s wife, did not help matters. Every time Zachary looked at his friend, an invisible spike of guilt was delivered between his ribs.
He took another healthy swig of port and wondered if he should go in search of whisky instead. Surely there was some to be had in this decrepit pit? The longer their dialogue went on, the more he felt the villain for having taken Izzy’s virginity on a heap of rocks and grass earlier.
Christ, what a bastard he was.
Seasoned rakehell, my arse. Only a green lad and an unfeeling knave would have done what you did earlier. You did not even open her bloody bodice, you utter cad. Anyone could have come upon you. And after what happened in the library…
He pinched the bridge of his nose, inwardly admitting he deserved a fist to the face. “Are you sure the plodding always takes the best route, Wycombe? I find myself wishing I had married Lady Isolde yesterday and to the devil with all this wedding nonsense.”
“Stay the course,” Wycombe said sagely.
“Run, old chap,” Greymoor advised, raising his own glass before draining it with a wince. “Christ, port is too bloody sweet for my tongue these days. Have you anything more fortifying in this mausoleum?”
“Ah, yes. Greymoor’s tongue is exceedingly sensitive,” Wycombe mocked, grinning to take the sting from his taunt. “We must remember how delicate he is.”
“I’ll show you delicate, shall I?” the marquess growled. “I can see already I’m the odd man out in this mad business. Wycombe is obsessed with his duchess and Anglesey is domesticating like a good English sheep. And yet, having been acquainted with the hells of matrimony, I cannot help but to feel anything for you both but pity. Fucking hell. Where is the whisky?”
Where indeed?
Zachary quaffed the remainder of his port, trying not to grimace at the sweetness of the wine on his tongue. “There must be stronger spirits somewhere.”
He rose and stalked toward a cabinet he had yet to open. Being ensconced within the study had been strange enough; he had not yet seen fit to riffle through the contents. It was a room he remembered his father inhabiting. And after him, Horatio would have done, had he been in residence. Although, the question of whether or not his brother had ever been here at Barlowe Park following his marriage to Beatrice remained in question. Nothing about the state of the manor suggested he had.
Zachary opened the cabinet, and he was not disappointed.
“Whisky,” he declared.
“Thank Christ,” Greymoor muttered. “I feared I was going to have to ride into that godforsaken little village and find a tavern.”
His overwhelming sense of defeat momentarily chased, Zachary lifted the bottle triumphantly, bringing it back to the armchairs where his friends were seated as if it were the spoils of war.
And that was when the undeniable sound of a gunshot blasted from somewhere below stairs.
Greymoor and Wycombe were on their feet in an instant, Wycombe’s countenance grim.
“What the hell was that?” Greymoor demanded.
“A shot being fired,” Wycombe said.
Zachary cursed. “I’ll go investigate.”
“You are not going alone,” Wycombe said. “Greymoor, you see to the safety of the household while Anglesey and I determine what the devil is going on.”
* * *
“I saw a mouse,”Potter shouted unrepentantly, still clutching a double-barreled shotgun that looked to be similar in age to himself.
Zachary sighed as he looked from his butler to the damage of the butler’s pantry exterior wall. “Give the shotgun to me, if you please, Potter.”
The stoic retainer frowned, cupping a hand to his ear. “Heh?”
“Undoubtedly, the loudness of the gun firing did not help matters,” Wycombe observed. “Thankfully, no one was injured.”
“Did I get the vermin?” Potter wanted to know.
