Chapter Two
ROBERT BRANBROOK SAT ALONEat a table in his club, staring into a half-empty glass of scotch. The only good thing about Scotland, as far as he was concerned. One up, then, on England. The Irish had Irish Whiskey, the Scots had Scottish Whisky. What did England offer a man to drown his sorrows? Gin. Robert shuddered at the thought. He swallowed the rest of the glass to dispel the memory of the revolting stuff.
“You look a bit peaked there, Banbrook,” a jovial voice said. A large hand clasped his shoulder briefly.
Robert looked up from his empty tumbler and squinted to bring Sir Stirling James into focus. Stirling pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table.
“I’m as fine as a fiddle, Stirling, I can assure you.” Robert reached for the nearly empty decanter before him. He missed once, but claimed it on the second try. He flashed Stirling a grin, proud of his success. “You see? Fine as a fiddle,” Robert repeated.
Liquid sloshed onto his fingers and he looked down. Whisky tumbled from the mouth of the crystal decanter and over the hand clasping the tumbler. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he angled the bottle to get more into the glass.
“I’m glad to hear it, Banbrook, because I was worried you’d spent the past three days in this club drinking yourself to death.” Stirling lifted an arm and waved. A footman hurried over with a cloth to sop up the spilled liquor.
“Oh, I have. I am.” Robert offered a grin, though he could hardly feel his face.
“I take it this ill-conceived effort has to do with a certain young lady?” Stirling asked as the footman mopped the spill.
“You, Geoffrey, bring me another bottle,” Robert said to the footman. He turned back to Stirling. “You use the wordladyloosely.”
“I find that doubtful.” Stirling nodded toward the footman. “John will ignore your request.” Stirling emphasized the man’s name. “The entire staff will. I’ve had you cut off.”
Robert let out a mumbled curse. The footman departed without looking at him. A glance showed no others near.
“Can’t you leave me to drink myself to death in peace?” Robert asked. He squinted at the older gentleman. “You used to be fun.” He knocked back his drink and realized very little whisky had made its way into his glass.
“Oh, I have something fun planned, never fear.” Stirling stood and gestured again.
Footsteps sounded behind Robert. He craned his neck in an effort to see who approached. Two of the burlier footmen, their faces set, marched toward him. Or was there one and he was seeing the man twice? He blinked several times, but neither of the two disappeared.
Large hands clasped his arms and lifted him from the chair. At least four hands, so at least two of the fellows, then. Or was that three? The empty tumbler slipped free of his grasp to hit the table with a thunk.
The sound drew his attention as the men got him to his feet. Sad empty tumbler. All it wanted was to do its duty by him. So loyal. Not like women.
Stirling appeared at his side, swaying like a storm-tossed schooner. “What do you think, Banbrook, can you walk?”
Robert shook off the hands and straightened. “I most certainly can. What do you take me for?” He raised his chin, endeavoring to stare Stirling down, but his chin wouldn’t stop. It went up and up. Robert’s head tilted back. He’d never taken time to properly contemplate the ceiling of his club before. One always overlooked the details.
Four hands gripped him and stood him upright again when he started to topple backward. Stirling, still swaying, appeared greatly amused. He gestured and the hands began to half walk, half carry Robert.
The faces of other gentlemen at the club moved in a slow spiral around him as they crossed the room. Most were turned his way. Expressions ranged from sympathetic to disgusted. Robert would have taken careful note of who owned the latter, but the names of his peers were strangely absent from his brain. Maybe they were all named Geoffrey. The idea inclined him to laugh, but he didn’t want to amuse Stirling any further.
The hands didn’t toss him from the club as he half-expected, but instead took him up the steps and into one of the private rooms, furnished with a bed, desk, chairs and table. Inside stood a large, full washtub, as well. He had just enough sense to wonder why no steam rose from the tub before he was picked up and plunked, fully clothed, into the chilly water.
In shock, he slid under the surface. He came up gasping for air. Rapid blinking brought Stirling into view beside the tub. Robert unleashed a stream of invectives. Stirling gestured. A large hand settled on Robert’s head and pushed him back under, then let him up immediately.
“Feeling better yet?” Stirling asked as Robert’s head cleared the surface once more.
“You bloody, rat-faced, son-of-a—” A gesture from Stirling. Robert went down into the water again. He flailed at the hand, but it didn’t remain on his head long enough to strike. He pushed himself to the surface, spitting water. “Do you mean to kill me?”
Stirling looked down at him, arms crossed, expression contemplative. “I thought death was your goal.”
“You bloody well know it’s not, you madman. This water is damned cold.”
“Here in Scotland, we call it refreshing.”
“Well I’m a bloody Englishman and I don’t appreciate being dunked in a trough.” Robert pushed a hand over his face, skimming away water. “What are you playing at, Stirling?”
“Playing?” Stirling shook his head. “No. I’ve a favor to ask, actually.”
