"An hour?"
"More would be better, but an hour will do."
Geoff nodded. "Good luck."
Miles grinned, executed a fancy little fencing move against the air, just for the hell of it, and turned to go. At the last moment, another thought struck Miles. He poked Geoff in the shoulder. "One last thing."
"What might that be?" asked Geoff warily.
It was a sad day when one's friends turned all suspicious. "Just keep an eye on him and Hen, will you? I didn't like the way he was hovering over her last night."
"Simple enough," agreed Geoff with relief. "I can always spirit her off onto the dance floor. Maybe if I could make Mary jealous…"
"Knew I could count on you, old chap!" Miles whacked Geoff on the shoulder before he could complete the thought, and strode cheerfully out of the ballroom with the comfortable sense of one who has done his duty.
Loping down the front steps, Miles drew in a deep, restorative breath of night air — and nearly gagged. Miles's face twisted in disgust. The smell was unmistakable, as were the noises that accompanied it. Someone, coattails sticking up in the air and head in the shrubbery, was casting up his accounts right into the Middlethorpes' carefully trimmed shrubbery.
As Miles passed, the retcher stood up, stumbled, landed with one hand under the bushes — Miles winced — and levered himself up again, so that the lantern light fell full on his pasty face. Miles stopped dead in his tracks. Here was someone he'd been meaning to speak to. It wasn't the best of timing, but Miles would rather get this particular interview over with as quickly as possible. The stench only provided extra incentive.
Taking hold of a mercifully clean part of the man's cravat, Miles helped haul him upright.
"Frobisher," he drawled. "I've been wanting to speak to you."
"Honored, Dorrington." Frobisher swayed on his feet as he attempted a bow. He grimaced at the ground as though he suspected it of trying to attack him. "Pleasure, dontcha know."
Miles couldn't echo the sentiment. Miles sidestepped to get out of the way of the blast of brandy fumes that emerged, like flames from a dragon, when Frobisher spoke. The man's cravat hung askew, his jacket gaped open, revealing streaks of Miles didn't want to know what on his waistcoat, and his bloodshot eyes narrowed with the sheer difficulty of trying to focus on Miles.
This inebriated cretin had had the gall to touch Henrietta. Miles's nostrils flared with distaste — a mistake, since it allowed in more of Frobisher's disgusting reek. When not in his cups, Frobisher was a perfectly presentable specimen, but any man of his age who would let himself get in such a state didn't deserve to be in the same room as Hen, much less drag her out onto darkened balconies. The man needed to be taught a little lesson in manners, starting with keeping his scurvy hands off Miles's best friend's sister.
Calm, Miles reminded himself. Just a little man-to-man chat. It didn't do to pound one's acquaintances silly — it made social life dashed awkward. He just needed to make sure the man knew that if he so much as looked at Henrietta again, he'd better bloody well start thinking about emigrating to the remoter bits of the Americas.
Miles crossed his arms over his chest. "I hear you had a little difference of opinion with Henrietta Selwick."
"Dam' disagreeable chit," slurred Frobisher. "Goin' about, cutting up stiff just because — " He catapulted back into the bushes.
Miles grasped the back of his waistcoat and hoisted him out again. If he held him dangling in the air just a moment longer than necessary, Frobisher was foxed enough not to notice. Nor did he suspect that Miles was considering replacing his hand with a boot and testing just how far one drunken degenerate could be kicked.
Regretfully, Miles dropped Frobisher. He had a message to deliver first. Kicking would have to wait.
"Thanks, Dorrington." Frobisher brushed ineffectually at his waistcoat. Some substances do not respond kindly to brushing. Frobisher scowled at the ruin of his gloves. "Dashed decent of you."
"About Lady Henrietta," Miles began menacingly, eager to say his piece and be done with it.
"Don't know what she was so upset about." Frobisher shook his head at the vagaries of women. "Jus' a little cuddle. Girl's in her third Season, you'd think she'd be thanking me."
"She'd what?"
Did the man have a death wish? Miles concentrated on the possibility he had misheard. The man was drunk; he wasn't speaking clearly.
"Last prayers, y'know," Frobisher elucidated helpfully. "On the shelf."
Miles's fragile hold on his temper snapped.
"Would you care to say that again," Miles clipped, "at dawn?"
Chapter Twelve
Duel (n.): 1) a desperate struggle in a darkened room; 2) a means of emptying crowded ballrooms
Martin Frobisher might have been drunk, but he wasn't stupid. At least, not entirely stupid. He knew enough to be very, very afraid.
Dorrington's skill with an epee was unparalleled, his marksmanship legendary, but the prospect of being skewered or shot faded to insignificance before the far more immediate menace of Miles himself. Miles's hands were flexing in a way that had nothing to do with Queensbury rules. Frobisher backed away, bumped into the shrubbery, and steadied himself with one hand against the wall.
"I say, Dorrington…"
"Yes, Frobisher? What exactly do you have to say?"
"Never meant it like that," he stammered, sliding down the wall to sit heavily in a puddle of his own making. "Damn fine girl. Anyone would want 'er. Tits like — urgh…"
Frobisher's head snapped back with the force of the blow. His eyes bugged out in horror as Miles seized him by the cravat and hauled him upright.
"You will not touch Lady Henrietta Selwick ever again. You will not dance with her. You will not kiss her hand. You will not cuddle, fondle, or otherwise defile any part of her anatomy. Is that clear?"
"Won't touch her," Frobisher dutifully gurgled. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he looked anxiously at Miles. "Won't even talk to her!"
"Even better," said Miles grimly. Opening his hand, he let Frobisher drop — right back into the pile of his own filth. Frobisher sprawled half under the bushes, clasping his throat and panting with relief. "Frobisher!"
"Yes?" a cracked voice emerged from the bushes.
"If I were you, I'd refrain from mentioning any of this to any of your little friends. Speak Lady Henrietta's name with anything but respect, and I'll thrash you within an inch of your miserable life and sell you to the press gangs. If they'll have you," added Miles with a disparaging glance at the crumpled pile of soiled fabric curled up under the bushes. "Good night, Frobisher."
A faint moan followed Miles as he clumped purposefully off down the street.
The triumphal hero was feeling less than pleased with himself. He had, he knew, massively overreacted. Massively. The man had been drunk, he'd been in no condition for a fair fight, and, to be just, he hadn't even meant to be offensive; he just was. All Miles had to do was calmly and coolly deliver a warning, gentleman to gentleman, to alert Frobisher that Henrietta wasn't unprotected and she wasn't fair game. Simple enough. Instead, he had lost his head, flexed his muscles, mouthed threats like some thickheaded numbskull fresh from the countryside. It was sheer dumb luck that no one had been watching.
But there was something about Frobisher, about the thought of him pressing his attentions on Hen, that made Miles want to stomp back and finish what he'd started. How dare he refer to Henrietta in those terms?
Miles scowled. Frobisher's careless words had brought back a memory that Miles had been doing his best to repress for the past month. He'd nearly managed, too. There had been an incident. An incident involving Henrietta and a nightdress. A bloody indecent nightdress. Weren't innocent young virgins supposed to be bundled up in yards of woolly fabric to prevent shocking the sensibilities of any bachelors who might happen by? If they weren't, they should be.