If he heardone more word about whisky, types of whisky, whisky distillation, whisky ageing, and the general history of whisky, he would scream.
Gabriel threw an irritated look at Freddie, who was now waxing poetic on the topic of whisky caskets. The fop had been making himself home in his castle since the moment he’d arrived and showed no sign of leaving. Given the dandy he was, he’d acquired a tiresome amount of knowledge about everything concerning whisky, which he insisted on sharing with Gabriel.
What astounded him even more was that he’d forged a close relationship with Higgins, of all people. The old man fairly doted on the fop. It turned out that Higgins was as much of a whisky lover as he was. That he’d recently point-blank shot a black-hearted scoundrel impressed him even more. Apparently, they were kindred souls.
Gabriel massaged his temples.
Birdie had been gone for a fortnight already, and he hadn’t gone after her. He felt helpless, angry, and confused.
The moment they realised she’d gone, Freddie had clapped him on the shoulders and said, “The old girl probably ran all the way home. Give her time, she’ll come around. Trust me, I know my sister.” Gabe thought that maybe there was a word of wisdom in there.
Freddie was dressed in a pink waistcoat and striped, yellow pantaloons. His waist was cinched, the shoulders padded, the coat sleeves puffed. Gabriel guessed he must wear a corset. The starched shirt points nearly poked him into his cheeks. His pale blonde hair was elegantly styled and protruded over his forehead in an elaborate wave. He seemed like a veritable pink of the fashion, but Gabriel couldn’t say for sure, since he hadn’t been in society the last seven years. Possibly longer.
“I say. Did you hear at all what I was saying?”
Gabriel jerked to attention. “Something about grains.”
“These barrels of barley beg to be put to good use! It would be a crime not to!”
“Where on earth have you acquired all this knowledge?”
Freddie smirked. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of people one meets in the gaming halls of London. Oh, the information they are willing to share!”
Ah.
“So, you are a gambler. Instead of helping your mother and sisters, you’re gambling their dowries away.” Gabriel wasn’t born yesterday; he’d put two and two together. A baron’s daughter who became a governess only did so if she found herself in strained circumstances.
He eyed Freddie’s clothes critically. Nothing about the way he dressed implied he was in dire straits. He thought of the state of Birdie’s clothes. Simple. Plain. Obviously refashioned from old gowns. Not that he knew too much about it. She certainly didn’t parade about in the finest of silks and velvets. No. She said she had to work as a governess … to pay Freddie’s gaming debts?
His knuckles tightened. What about the sisters? He suddenly had a vision of them garbed in the finest gowns in London.
“Dowries? No. My father did that. Shortly before he gave the crows a pudding.”
Gabriel looked at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dropped his leaf? Kicked the bucket?” He folded down three fingers in imitation of a pistol and tipped the forefinger against his temple.
Gabriel uttered an oath.
“Before that, he gambled away our entire fortune and estate, save the house in which we now live.” Freddie shrugged. “Been trying to gamble it all back. Alas, Lady Fortuna hasn’t been in a cooperative mood lately.”
“Gambling would not rectify your situation in any manner. It would only make it worse.”
“What else am I to do? It’s the only thing I’m good at. Say, do you play?” Freddie pulled out a pack of cards from his inner coat pocket.
Gabriel warded off with both hands. “No.”
“Shame.”
“No gambling under my roof. If I catch you as much as playing for a farthing, I’ll throw you out.”
“No need for a tiff, Your Grace. I won’t gamble. I daresay I’ve lost my taste for it. There are other, better ways of making money.”
“Such as making your sister work as a governess.”
“That’s one way. Turned out to be unreliable because she ran off and married a duke, see. But I was meaning something else.” Freddie lifted his whisky glass to his lips. “We have all the material we need stored in your cellar. Save for a copper still and some piping, which no doubt we can have made by some local.”
“Since when has this become ‘we’?”
