Miss Darby's Duenna by Sheri Cobb South

Author:Sheri Cobb South [South, Sheri Cobb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1999-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

When the wine goes in, strange things come out.

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER, Die Piccolomini

Sir Harry, bereft of his love, lingered for some time alone in the secluded bower, idly pacing back and forth and shuffling his feet in a manner fatal to the beauty of his soft leather evening pumps. But Sir Harry was indifferent to such sartorial concerns. He had set out, at great risk to himself, to woo and win his lady and had ended by quarreling with her, receiving nothing but a very sore cheek for his pains. At last he roused himself from his reverie sufficiently to dispatch a lackey to Mr. Wrexham and the ladies, informing them that he had found his grandmother feeling unwell and was escorting her home.

Having accounted for the absence of both his personae, he set out to assuage his heartache by indulging in the usual vices favored by young men suffering the pangs of unrequited love. He proceeded to White’s, where he drank too much brandy and wagered too much money at faro.

As one losing turn yielded to another, he waxed eloquent about the vagaries of the female mind and the folly of falling in love.

He was still engaged in “bucking the tiger” (albeit without much success) at three o’clock in the morning, when Lord Mannerly entered the gaming room. Sir Harry, seated with his back to the door, was unaware of the presence of his nemesis. Calling for another bottle in slurred accents, he placed his wager on the jack, and groaned when the exposed card was removed to reveal a queen.

“So close, and yet so far away,” sighed a fellow player, a young officer whose own success at cards was only slightly greater than Sir Harry’s. “But perhaps you are lucky at love instead.”

Sir Harry, painfully aware of the angry red welt on his left cheek and vaguely sensing an insult through the fog of his inebriation, wheeled unsteadily about and seized his fellow gambler by the front of his scarlet coat. “And jusht—just—what do you mean by that, sirrah?”

The officer, who intended no insult, did not expect his expression of sympathy to be met with belligerence, and took umbrage at Sir Harry’s rough handling of his person. “Why, only that your pile of vowels is almost as large as your pile of guineas was when you came in! Now, unhand me, you ruffian, before I draw your cork!”

Upon hearing this heated exchange, a small crowd gathered as gamblers all over the room abandoned their own games to watch the scene unfolding at the faro table. The older men were concerned with maintaining the dignity of their establishment; the younger men were primarily interested in getting a good view of the mill which seemed imminent. Only Lord Mannerly remained in his seat. Flicking open the lid of his enameled snuffbox, he placed a pinch of snuff on his wrist and raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he silently observed the proceedings.

“Damn it, I’ll not have Livvy’s name ban—bandied about this way!” declared Sir Harry, lurching to his feet.

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