~~~~
Morning. Or rather, early afternoon.
Gareth awoke to the sound of a cuckoo outside his window.
He dragged open his eyes and saw his bed curtains revolving in a slow circle around him. Comfortably enmeshed in the stuporous daze that always followed a night of heavy drinking, he watched their heavy folds, their crimson tassels, until the slow, lazy spinning began to overwhelm him and his stomach churned with sudden nausea. He groaned, his head pounding with each beat of his pulse, his mouth dry, stale, and sour. All to be expected after a night out with the Den of Debauchery, of course. But this morning, more than just his head hurt. In fact, every muscle in his body ached. He cursed and pulled the coverlet up over his eyes, trying to shut out the daylight, trying to remember what he had done last night.
Cuck-koo. Cuck-koo. Cuck-koo.
He put his fingers to his temples, straining his mind to remember.
Purple bollocks.
Ah yes, he remembered now. Or partly, at least. Something about a statue, and painting its balls purple.
And Lucien, spoiling everything.
Gareth pulled the counterpane from his eyes and gingerly sat up in bed. Faint light glowed through a crack in the bed hangings and he squinted against it, unwilling — unable — to face even this meager taste of morning. The devil, he felt awful. Groaning, he brushed from the pillow a small twig that had fallen out of his hair sometime during the night. Ah, yes. Now he remembered why his muscles ached. When Lucien had arrived, Gareth had tumbled off the statue, a victim of that damned Irish whiskey Chilcot had brought. Priceless stuff, that. He didn't even remember hitting the ground. And he certainly didn't remember the ride back to the Castle, though Lucien must have slung him across Armageddon's back and carted him all the way home.
He knuckled his eyes and ran a hand over his hair. Part of it was still caught in its queue, part of it was pasted to his neck by mud, and the rest hung in limp, heavy swatches over his eyes. As he loosened a patch of dried mud just behind his ear, a sprinkling of chalky white dirt sifted down onto the bed linens. Even the gentle tug of his fingers against his scalp hurt, magnifying his hangover.
"Oh ... hell," he said, giving the bell pull a single yank. Then he held his head in his hands and groaned, in very real pain, as the bath was brought in and filled. Ellison, his valet, stood waiting to assist him.
"If I may help, my lord?"
Gareth stared down at himself. He was still dressed in last night's finery — or what was left of it. His fine lawn shirt was stiff with dried mud and missing several buttons. His breeches were minus one knee buckle, and a large rip showed the skin beneath. His coat, which his tailor had delivered only last week, was hopelessly crushed, probably ruined. 'Sdeath, he was even still wearing his shoes.
Good old Lucien. Tossing him into bed without even removing his shoes, let alone his clothes.
Anger beat behind his eyes. He swung his feet from the bed and was promptly sick, managing to grab the chamber pot just in time.
The damned bird was still going at it outside. Cuck‑koo. Cuck‑koo. Cuck-koo, with only a second's pause between each call.
"Ohh‑h‑h‑h ... shut up!" Gareth stumbled to his feet, digging his fists into his eye sockets as Ellison helped him out of his ruined clothes. "Just shut up!"
But it was not the cuckoo, a quarter mile away and singing from some tree on the downs, that was setting his teeth on edge. It was Lucien. Lucien, who always interfered. Lucien, who didn't know how to have fun, didn't want to have fun, and forbade others to have fun. Lucien — the all-powerful, all-controlling, Duke of Blackheath. Gareth stepped into the tub and sank into the hot water. How much better it would have been if Charles had been the firstborn, he thought sullenly. He would have made a far more pleasant duke, just as Lucien, with his autocratic ways, would've made the better soldier.
Charles, at least, had been capable of having fun.
And Lucien would never have got himself killed.
Sadness knifed through Gareth's normally light heart as he bent his head and let Ellison soap and rinse his hair. His brother had been only a year older than himself, his friend, his confidante, his ally — and the standard by which Gareth had always been judged. He'd been the one with whom to climb trees and race horses, to follow to Eton, to Oxford, and back again to Blackheath Castle. Like himself, Charles had grown restless. He'd been home from University for only two months before buying himself a commission in the army and leaving the castle forever.
Best not to think about Charles. All the missing him in the world wouldn't bring him back.
And then Gareth remembered Juliet Paige.
The beautiful woman who had won Charles's heart. Who had won Charles's request for her hand. Who, as Gareth sat here stewing in the after-effects of his own debauchery, mothered Charles's own child.
Put one foot wrong, Gareth, and I warn you: The girl goes.
Cold dread washed over him. Lucien.
He swore and lunged from the bath.