“Jack! For heaven’s sake!” Then, muttering to himself, “Coffee, or soda…or a pitcher of water to the head!” An irritated hand slapped Jack’s foot through the covers. The floorboards creaked, and Jack heard the distant ringing of the bell whose cord George must have just rung.
“If you’ve rung for Dalcher to throw you out, I commend you. If not, I’ll throw you out myself, George.” He swallowed thickly. “Just as soon as I can stand up.”
“Get up, Jack. This is important.”
“Someone die?”
“No, but—”
“I called someone out?”
“Well, yes, actually. Two of them. But luckily all three of you were too drunk for it to go anywhere.”
“Two?”
“At the same time.”
One eye open, he confronted the stuffy darkness under the pillow. “Good Lord. Who?”
“Sedgewick and Warde.”
Relieved, he shut his eyes again. “Ah. That’ll explain it.”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t remember anything past that pint of daffy in Vauxhall.” He’d been eager to drink himself into oblivion upon leaving Almack’s. Apparently he’d succeeded. “I can barely remember how to talk, George.”
“Oh. Well. It’s probably just as well you’ve forgotten.”
Jack again cracked open an eye, shifting the pillow to let in a little air. Hazy blue light filtered in with it. “What happened?”
“Nothing! Nothing! It was just a toast. Everyone was foxed, Jack, you know how it is.” George’s laugh was nervous. “Nothing but wine fumes being spoken.”
“George…” he warned, “a toast to whom?”
He heard the wince. “Miss…ah…Miss Fanshaw.”
Jack dragged the pillow from his face and sat up. His stomach followed a moment behind and landed somewhere up by his ribs with a protesting lurch—one that clashed badly with the thundering ache in his head.
“What did they say?”
George only grimaced.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, George, I’m not actually going to call them out. Probably. Besides, killing Sedge isn’t going to help me with his sister. Or,” he mused, “I would’ve done it already.”
George looked relieved at the knock at the door. “Coffee, please,” he told the servant, then added, “strong.” He closed the door again and turned back to Jack, who made a rolling motion with his hand.
“It was just…just a toast…to…to…er…dusky constellations.”
Jack’s face darkened. The freckles. They laughed at her freckles, did they? He threw the covers from his legs and stood up, gripping the bedpost for support, dimly relieved to discover he was, in fact, wearing nightclothes.
“Those damned dogs. What kind of a man laughs at a lady’s appearance? And they call themselves gentlemen, do they?” He caught George’s expression. “Is this exactly what I said last night?”
“Last night’s version was more colourful. But more or less, yes.”
“And then I called them out, did I?”
George winced and nodded.
