“You didn’t think we’d miss the wedding, did you? And SophieisAideen’s cousin. I worried you’d be drinking claret in some shadowy corner of that mausoleum of yours and reading dreary poetry, but the butler told me you were here with this rogue.”
“I was more worried,” the rogue drawled, filling Bram a glass, “that Rakeprude might need some instruction before his wedding night. We could provide him with pictorial explanation.”
Rakecombe couldn’t prevent his lips from vaguely twitching. Winterbourne did amuse from time to time.
Another patron clambered onto the adjoining table and took a deep breath.
“Poets praise Chloe’s shape, her complexion, her air,
Coral lips, pearly teeth, and fine eyes;
A fig for them all, they can never compare
To my charmer’s elastic white thighs.”
“Chap’s bawdy song reminds me of that widow at Oxford. Remember Mrs Chloe Russell?” Bram lolled in his chair, looking content after four jugs of claret, three glasses of port, two brandies and a cheroot. He also looked stewed to the gills, thought Rakecombe, speculating on his own external status.
“Lud,” replied Jack. “Fine figure of a woman and the instigator of many a cub’s dreams.”
“Was it you?” Bram pointed a finger at the rogue. “I always believed you won that bet.”
Rakecombe sprawled back, frowning. He knew the bet they talked of. Mrs Russell had been the widow of a former professor. Pretty and vivacious, there had been a wager as to who could bed her first with the claimant having to describe her garters as proof. Sometime later, the absurd wager had been collected, but neither description nor name of the victor had been made public.
“Nope, too young.” Jack held his palms up. “You forget I’m a fresh pup compared to you two, and I was just finding my feet in those days. Wish I had though; she had bosoms like–”
“Winterbourne,” snapped Rakecombe, “Mrs Russell is a respectable lady.”
“Alex, my fine fellow, youhaveto loosen up. ’Tis only in jest. I advise some brandy before tomorrow night….and tomorrow morning.”
“I can only hope,” Bram slurred, elbows now on table, “my mother-in-law hasn’t had time to speak to your betrothed about the wedding night.”
“Why?” asked Rakecombe, intrigued and worried in equal measure.
“’Cos she fed Sophie some cock and bull story about stamens, stigmas and pollination.”
Silence met this pronouncement.
“Gads,” muttered Jack, “no wonder debutantes look so petrified. Still, I’m sure you have a vague idea of what to do, Alex, and you can always send for me if you have trouble. I can call instructions from behind a screen. Or you could blindfold me. Millie has a–”
“Enough.” Rakecombe rose, listing slightly, glad Jack had dragged him out but now wanting to thrash the bugger. “I am for bed as one is getting married on the morrow,” he pronounced.
After unsteadily gathering cane and jacket, he veered past the strewn tables, toppled bodies and scattered empty chairs, before glancing over his shoulder. “And by the way, Mrs Russell’s garters were Pomona green with white lace trim.”
Winterbourne and Kelmarsh could be forgiven for their stupefaction, as he wasn’t the rake of his name in any literal sense, but in his youth, before his world had ended, he’d dallied on occasion.
The ladies had liked his discretion, but he doubted Mrs Russell cared any longer. He’d seen her on the street once, married again with five children and another on the way.
He staggered up the stairs and out the door, nearly falling in a puddle – damn claret – when an arm slipped under his right shoulder.
“Rakecombe, you old dog,” said Bram, chuckling.
Another arm slipped beneath his left. “An unmitigated cur, I’d say,” Jack added, eyes moist with mirth.
With his friends supporting him, or each other he wasn’t sure, they lumbered along whilst Bram and Jack quibbled over the parallels between botany and sexual congress. He winced and hoped to God that someone with more modern notions than Mrs Beckford had spoken to Aideen tonight.
They meandered through Covent Garden, circumventing its various ladies of the night, and gradually quietened in their own thoughts.
He could guess Bram’s – thinking of Sophie, no doubt, but peering at the marquess, he noted a slightly glum expression now the night was nearly over. Perhaps he’d invite him home for a nightcap. Winterbourne hid emotions not many saw.
