“They do a devilishly good hashed goose with beans. Not to mention the rich red cherry tartlets.”
Rakecombe gave a repressed glare but couldn’t deny the hunger worm.
The Cyder Cellars was heaving with gentlemen and non-gentlemen alike.
Nobles, actors, singers and poets ate cheek by jowl, the wine flowed in abundance, and the goose was damn good.
Broad tables filled the room and waiters weaved their way amongst the jug-bitten clientele. Occasionally a fellow sang a ditty or enacted a sonnet or fell over – it didn’t matter as all were vastly entertaining.
Much as Rakecombe hated to admit it, Winterbourne had been right. He’d spent far too much time brooding in the dark of late. He loved the theatre and song, and yet he’d immersed himself in work, even missing the masterful actor Kean’s appearances.
A chap across the room broke into song.Una’s Lock, he believed it was entitled.
“You better listen in,” the marquess yelled above the hubbub. “Might give you some ideas for your wedding night.”
Grunting a reply, he sank his teeth into the cherry tartlet.
Winterbourne leaned forward, vile green waistcoat now unencumbered by jacket. “Sooo, Alex…”
Rakecombe tensed. He should have given the blasted marquess a false name as the chap now used it with impunity. No one called him Alex, except his mother and that was only in private. How would it sound from Aideen’s lips in that Irish lilt – his full name – slow and lyrical.
He waited forJack’sinterrogation.
“How did you and the delectable Miss Quinlan end up wrapped around each other like eels? Dashed unprofessional to get caught. I have a rule about that. Number three – Better to die with no clothes on than to be ensnared in a wedding coat.”
“We were merely kissing,” he answered coldly.
“Twaddle! Miss Parker is spreading an entirely different story. She squealed there was no gap between you.”
No, there hadn’t been. He’d felt every inch of Aideen’s fulsome body. And he’d wanted her closer still. He wiped his brow: it was damnable hot in the Cyder Cellars.
“It matters not. We are to marry. She will produce an heir, live in the country, and we will stay far from each other’s lives.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “And you think Miss Q will stand for that?”
“She’ll have to. I am not giving up my work and ’tis dangerous to have her close.”
“Well, best of luck, but I don’t think you have a chance in hell. I also think you underestimate her gravely. She’s a plucky lass with a bright mind. Remember that Frenchman last year?”
No, he didn’t want to remember. Her bruised face. Her torn dress. The blood under her fingernails.
Did Winterbourne not see that was exactly why they would live their lives apart?
Disregarding the question, he was about to dig into another cherry tartlet when a slap on his back interrupted him.
He turned.
Oh yes, his other friend.
Bram Walcott, the Earl of Kelmarsh, former comrade and now happily married rusticator stood before him, beaming with bloody good health and a brown glow to his skin. He looked like a peasant.
“Bram?” he said, standing, “what are you doing here?”
Shaking hands, he noticed the change in his old friend – no shadows encircled his eyes and his lips fell to an easy smile. Was that retiring? Or marriage?
Last year, Bram had dis-attached himself from Crown work, but it hadn’t been without its problems, and during the course of his troubled courtship, Rakecombe himself had met Aideen.
In fact, when you came to look upon it, his upcoming marriage was all Kelmarsh’s fault.
