Page 20 of The Wrong Rake
“He is, and with our other…guest,” the gentleman, George apparently, replied. “He’s keeping them from murdering one another. Or at least, keeping Mr. Watkins from murdering Adam. Although he says it’s not worth the effort and he ought to let him have at it,” George added, with a fond smile. “I’ve been staying with them to keep Caesar from washing his hands of the matter. But I came down when I looked out the window and saw you coming out of the hack.”
“Well, I thank you for your efforts,” Simon said. “This way perhaps we’ll have the pleasure of murdering one or both of them ourselves. Who the devil is Watkins, anyway? Never mind,” he went on before George could do more than open his mouth. “We’ll find out ourselves in a moment. The list of fellows who want to kill my brother is apparently extensive. Oh, and this is Henry Standish.” Simon’s cheeks went very pink, and he shot Harry a glittering glance from under long eyelashes. “Harry, may I introduce George Mulgrew, Caesar’s lover.”
The blush, Harry knew, had to be for the use of his name, particularly spoken in front of others, and not for the casual reference to two men as established lovers; Perdition didn’t seem like the type of place where anyone would give a damn.
It shocked him, in any case, although he liked to think he was too well bred to show it to Mulgrew.
Besides, it was difficult to think of anything besides how very sweetHarrysounded when spoken in Simon’s crisp, elegant voice. Simon had only used it twice before they left the inn, and Harry hadn’t had the chance to grow used to it. He wondered if he ever would, or if it would give him a slight thrill each time he heard it.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mulgrew,” Harry said, and shook hands.
“Right then,” Simon said briskly. “That’s the niceties. Upstairs, shall we? And I suppose a new cravat will need to wait,” he muttered in an undertone.
As they followed Mulgrew to the stairs, Harry bent and whispered, “I’ll only be tearing it off of you in any case, Simon,” and had the distinct pleasure of seeing the flush on Simon’s cheeks spread down his neck and out of sight beneath the cravat in question. Hell, he wanted to do it now, and be damned to Adam Beaumont.
But he must consider Amelia first, of course. And at the very least, thinking of how much he’d enjoy stripping Simon bare again at the first opportunity would distract him from the impulse to wring Adam’s neck.
Mulgrew led them up one flight of stairs and down the corridor. Raised voices reached them well before they approached the last door on the left, which Mulgrew opened rather cautiously, as if afraid something might be thrown.
Harry glanced at Simon, who met his eyes, gave a firm nod, and stepped through, Harry following on his heels. Mulgrew remained in the corridor, pulling the door shut behind them rather too quickly for courtesy. Lucky bastard, to be able to make his escape.
Harry’s height allowed him to see over Simon’s head. Three men occupied the room, one Caesar Potts, who stood by the fireplace with his arms crossed over his chest, favoring everyone at large with a ferocious scowl. In an armchair very near him sat a man who made Harry’s jaw drop. Despite what Simon had told him about their resemblance, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so strong as that. Even with a grotesquely swollen eye and a split, scabbed lip, Adam Beaumont could have been Simon’s twin.
“And I’ll have you in the dock for assault!” Adam was saying loudly as they walked in. “And then I’ll—”
He cut off abruptly as Simon and Harry entered, and Harry turned his head to get a look at the third man: a very young fellow of medium height and a heavy sportsman’s build, standing off to the side with his fists clenched and looking as if he’d be brawling with Beaumont at that moment if not for Potts’s muscular and threatening presence.
Watkins, as Harry assumed he must be, sported a bruise on one cheekbone. And as Harry glanced down and assessed him more thoroughly, he saw that he had split and bruised knuckles, too.
Well, that along with Adam’s ranting solved the mystery of who had beaten him.
Simon had obviously come to the same conclusion, and said, “How interesting, Adam, that you told me only this morning that you had no idea who had done that to your face, and gave me a very different description of your assailant.”
Harry moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Simon as Adam’s face—the undamaged part of it, anyway—went bright crimson, and he began to stammer, gaping like a fish.
The resemblance to Simon faded away as he did. Good Lord, Simon could never look like such a fool.
“He deserved it!” Watkins said, stepping forward pugnaciously. “He ruined the reputation of a lovely girl—the loveliest in the world, and the sweetest, too! And he’ll meet me for it, the bastard, whether he tries to play the coward or—”
“You don’t deserve the courtesy of—” Adam began.
“Both of you, give it a bloody rest—” Potts shouted.
“The hell you will!” Harry’s sharp bark cut through the din, and all of them stopped dead, staring at him. At least one of Harry’s military skills, his officer’s voice, could be applicable in civilian life. He much preferred not to use his rank now that he’d left the army, but that could perhaps be useful here, too. “Major Henry Standish, not at all at your bloody service, either of you. Except you,” he said with a nod to Potts, who nodded back. Harry resisted adding, “You’re relieved,” though under the circumstances it felt appropriate. Potts had clearly held his position gallantly while waiting for reinforcements.
He looked from Adam to Watkins, both of whom had gone from red to milky pale in the space of an instant, rather to Harry’s sardonic amusement. Watkins clearly had some pretensions to being Amelia’s suitor, though Harry doubted he’d found much favor, since he’d neither seen the fellow nor heard of him during his brief sojourn in Bath with his family. And Adam, while he might feel he could escape the wrath of this angry youth, might not be so sanguine about tangling with Amelia’s elder brother the major.
“You’re—you must be Miss Standish’s brother,” Watkins gasped, entirely redundantly. Harry’s opinion of his chances with Amelia plummeted all the way down. Amelia suffered fools about as readily as Harry did, and adding verbal idiocy to his utterly nodcocked scheme of haring off to London to fight a man who had insulted a girl wholly unrelated to him merely made the final nail in the coffin of his good sense.
“I did nothing to bring this violence upon my person!” Adam cut in. “I don’t know why he—what—you have no reason to—”
“I demand the honor of defending Miss Standish’s good name!” Watkins cried.
Harry glanced down at Simon, finding him covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. Damn him, he’d make Harry burst out laughing too, and that wouldnotserve the purpose.
Good Lord, a few days past he’d have been raging and making demands, rather than attempting not to laugh. Simon. It was Simon’s influence, or his presence—something about him that soothed Harry’s rough edges and allowed him to see the humor in this absurd disaster.
“No one is dueling anyone,” Harry said crisply. “You—Watkins, is that your name?”
