“You seem to have a lump on your head, my lord.”
“The jug,” King muttered, allowing Danby to help him to his feet. Then it came to him, and he snapped his fingers. “No, not the jug. The brawl.”
“My lord?” Danby said, guiding King toward the steps to the second floor, where his bedchamber was located.
“There was a brawl, Danby. A very big, very loud, very violent brawl.”
“There always is, my lord,” Danby said.
That was true. It did seem like everywhere King went, chaos followed. Tonight two of Misfortune’s Favorites had been together. No wonder there had been a brawl. “Blame it on Henry,” he said.
“Henry, my lord?” Danby asked as he led King into the bedchamber.
“Oh, right. He’s Carlisle now. The Duke of Carlisle was slumming it with us in Seven Dials.” King sat obediently while Danby yanked off his boots.
“I do worry about you, my lord. Some parts of the city are not safe.”
“That’s what makes them entertaining, Danby,” King said. He stood so the valet could peel off his coat. “And don’t go reporting this to my father. I know he pays you to spy.”
Danby looked shocked. “My lord, I would never!” He was quite good at feigning shock, and it didn’t fool King in the least.
“The hell you wouldn’t.”
“About your father, my lord.”
“Don’t want to talk about him.”
Danby looked like he might proceed anyway, but then closed his mouth and seemed to reconsider. Instead of speaking, Danby reached for King’s neckcloth, but King batted his hands away. “You know what, Danby? Go to bed. I can undress myself. After all, I’m a man of thirty now. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“Yes, my lord.” Danby retreated, closing the door behind him and leaving King in the large chamber with only the sound of the fire crackling.
He loosened his cravat and undid the buttons at his throat, leaving the neckcloth to spill across the open V of his shirt. “Happy birthday to me,” King said as he crossed to a decanterof wine near the fire. He poured a quantity on the carpet before managing to slosh some in his glass. Then he raised a toast. “To thirty triumphant years.” He drank. “And thirty more,” he said, voice hoarse as the wine tickled his throat.
He thought about lying down in bed, but the room would spin too much if he lay flat. Instead, he slumped in a chair and stared at the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney and the flames danced, seeming to coalesce into the shape of…a barrel? No, a cask, like one might store wine or spirits.
King blinked and shook his head, and the fire was just a fire again. He closed his eyes and began to drift off into sleep. Then, quite suddenly, his chair was pulled from under him. At the same time, a blast of cold air whipped through the room, slammed the dressing room door closed, and extinguished the fire and all the candles. King blinked, looking up from the floor and about the dark room.
“Danby!” he called.
“He cannae hear ye,” said a low voice.
King started at the sound. It was a sound he could only describe as evil, not male or female, but filled with menace. As he stared, a shape began to materialize in the hearth. The figure of an old woman.
King scrambled back. He recognized that woman. She ducked her head and stepped out of the hearth and into the chamber.
“What the holy hell?” he muttered. He hadn’t thought of the witch from Scotland in years. A decade. What was she doing in his chamber?
“Hell isnae holy,” the witch said. “Nae, not at all. I ken that from experience.”
King shook his head. He must be drunker than he thought if he was imagining a witch in his chamber. Or perhaps he was dreaming. He shook his head, trying to rouse himself.
“I see ye remember me, George Oxley, Marquess of Kingston,” the witch said, looking down at him.
“Get out.”
“Gladly. I wanted a wee look at ye now that it’s begun.” She peered down at him, her black eyes boring into his face. King closed his eyes tightly. When he opened his eyes, she wouldn’t be there. This would be nothing more than a dream stoked by bad rum, his penance for drinking too much in Seven Dials. He wouldn’t be surprised if that blue-eyed taverness from the pub had poisoned him.
“Wake up,” he muttered to himself. “You’re only dreaming.”
