“Your future wife wouldn’t have the right to exist?” Timothy’s pale eyebrows drew together.
“No, I’m saying that you, oh Jesus Christ. Never mind. You’re drunk,” Beckett said, standing, though forgetting why he had done so. He took a moment to look around the pub, enjoying the delayed, floating sensation of the movement. His coachman was leaning against the wall near the entrance. Insouciant fellow. But given that the pub was virtually emptied of patrons, they ought to make their way as well.
It had been a run at their school days, drinking in public like this. As if they weren’t members of exclusive clubs that were better settings for men such as they. Men who could pull strings. But now, the outing had run its course, and it was time to depart with grace.
“Come on, Timothy.” Beckett pulled the man to his feet.
“If you are looking for companionship, there is a lady in the corner there,” Timothy slurred, scrabbling to get his feet under him. Beckett could still pick him up. The real reason why Timothy Rincon, unreasonably wealthy, smart, fair of feature, was still without a wife was that he was terribly short. Beckett was not. And the two of them looked like they would perform at Covent Gardens stages when they stood up. All they needed to do was juggle.
“Nobody wants to see my ugly mug above them,” Beckett said, practically pushing Timothy out the door. The coachman had already spun out the door to bring the carriage around.
“Aha! So you do want a wife!” Timothy shouted, pointing his finger up at him.
“That’s not what I said.”
Timothy made an exaggerated sad expression at him. “I regret to inform you, Beckett, but I manipulated you just now. There was no lady in the corner.”
Beckett would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t think the motion might cause him to somersault across the room. “It’s fine, Timothy. Let’s get two old men home.”
“Where?” Timothy asked.
“Exactly,” Beckett said.
They piled into the carriage. Bloody hell, was it always this bumpy? Despite the lush, comfortable interior, the carriage was an older model that didn’t have the best spring shock absorbers. Beckett would put that on the list of things to buy. If he could remember. He rarely took a carriage anymore. He’d thought Timothy asleep, but then the man reared up, like Lazarus.
“I know the perfect place!”
“I do not wish to drink another drop,” Beckett said, wanting to rest his eyes, but the jolts from the London potholes kept him from his pleasure.
“Not for liquor. Gambling!” Timothy was smiling too widely. It was very off-putting.
“I’m not letting you gamble when you are inebriated. It would be irresponsible. Your father would be appalled.”
Timothy waggled his finger too close to Beckett’s face. “It is gambling, but not with money!”
Beckett shook his head. “That sounds even worse.”
They pulled up to what looked like a beautiful home, painted in the most arresting shade of blue. An oddity, but to each their own.
“You are so tiresome,” Beckett said as he exhaled a drunken sigh. “You go on. I’ll sleep here.”
Timothy smacked his shoulder and then bodily pulled him out of the carriage. The coachman did nothing to aid Beckett, and he wondered if that could be considered dereliction of duty.
When Beckett finally stood on terra firma, Timothy dragged him inside the house by the arm, sputtering words and phrases to the effect ofwhether you like it or not,andI wish I didn’t have to resort to such measures.
Beckett thought for a moment of trying to make a pun about Timothy’s height and his use of the word “measure,” but was too drunk to think of anything clever, so he left it alone.
They were admitted and bid wait in a sitting area and offered more liquor for their refreshment. But as Beckett waved away the thought of a beverage, Timothy was already consulting someone on placing a wager.
“What is your sport, Timothy?” Beckett asked, his toes delightfully warm and snug, and his hands feeling over large, like he was wearing three pairs of woolen mittens. He would love to be crawling into a bed right about now.
Timothy turned to him, his eyes seeming glassy. Or was that Beckett’s vision making them appear so?
“Come on, then,” Timothy said, scampering off behind someone, beckoning him to follow.
The world tilted funnily this way and that as Beckett tromped after his friend. The place was ornately decorated and the carpet was very plush. It caught his soft, fuzzy feet and held them just so. He could sleep here happily.
Timothy stood at a table, facing another man. They stared each other down.
