Once upon a time, Tom had been a paragon. And then he had fallen in love with a married woman. One who had promised she would wed him as soon as she was freed from her husband via divorce. Only, it had not happened quite as she had told him it would.
And he had spent most of the days since Nell had returned his betrothal ring to him alternately cursing her and giving the bottle a black eye. Which he had done last night, after he could not sleep thanks to the cacophony next door.
Memory hit him like a blow.
A golden beauty in the moonlit gardens. The sweet scent of summer. Warm, silken feminine skin.
Hyacinth.
A name like a flower. How fitting.
He had kissed his nemesis after rescuing her dog from the rosebushes. After which, he had promptly retreated to his own gardens when she had disappeared. Where his abandoned whisky had been awaiting him, along with his self-loathing. He recalled tippling. Finding his way into his study. Tippling some more. Growing tired and lying on the floor…
Little wonder his back hurt.
“Hush, Arthur! What if his lordship hears you? I think his lashes are stirring,” cautioned Mrs. Brown.
Lord, Tom was miserable. Pathetic, really. He was hiding from his own servants, who had discovered him lying on his back in his study as if he were no better than a drunkard.
Because he was no better than a drunkard.
His stomach lurched again, reminding him of all the reasons why he ought never to touch another drop of the poison.
“Looks as if he is dead,” Trenton announced. “I am distressed, Mrs. Brown. Perhaps we ought to call for his lordship’s personal physician.”
At last, recalling the proprieties, referring to her as Mrs. Brown rather than Mildred.
Briefly, Tom wondered if there was a Mr. Brown. His would certainly not be the first housekeeper to don the title of Mrs. for the sake of her position. She and Trenton seemed on decidedly familiar terms. How had he failed to notice?
But he did not take note of much these days. Morning, noon, and night was a sea of drudgery and emptiness. He was adrift. In need of distraction, and not the sort to be found at the bottom of a bottle. He was too bloody old for that.
No, he needed a different sort of distraction altogether.
“Do you think he will be upset if we summon Dr. Blackford and his lordship is merely disguised?” asked Mrs. Brown.
Reminding Tom that his time for hiding was at an end. He needed to face the daylight. And his servants. Also, himself, as much as the prospect aggrieved him.
He opened his eyes, groaning anew as the light from the diligently drawn curtains sank into his skull with the force of a blade to the eye socket. He clamped his eyes closed once more.
“No calling the doctor,” he growled. “Leave me in peace, the both of you.”
“Yes sir, my lord, sir,” said Trenton, sounding quite unlike himself. “We feared you had struck your head, my lord. Nothing more.”
“Indeed,” he managed, biting his lip to stay a fresh wave of biliousness that threatened to undo him. “My head is perfectly fine. I merely wish to rest.”
“Of course, my lord. Rest is just the thing,” said Mrs. Brown in a rush. “Shall I have a tray sent to you?”
The thought of food made him newly ill.
Actually, had he stopped feeling ill? The answer was a decided, resounding no.
His head felt as if it had been inhabited by clouds. And cobwebs. And pickaxes.
He cleared his rusty throat. “I will ring for a tray later.”
Later, when he could once more contemplate the notion of consuming food. Which seemed as if it may not be for an eternity.
Either way, he supposed it was time for him to remove his miserable carcass from the study Axminster. He rose to a sitting position. “Thank you, Trenton, Mrs. Brown. That will be all.”
His servants took their leave whilst Tom collected the remnants of his pride. He needed to find his valet Abingdon, posthaste. That tonic he swore by for mornings after over-imbibing never failed to do its magic, even if the panacea tasted like warm sour milk and pepper.
Highland Fling, or some such rot, it was called.
Yes, the disgusting concoction was just what Tom needed.
Hyacinth awoke around noon to a headache from all the champagne she had consumed. And a needling twinge of regret.