“Sweet merciful heaven, my lord, you look like hell. What has happened to you?”
Nicholas pried open one eye. Pawly stood across the room, staring at him in utter disgust.
“Your concern is touching,” Nicholas slurred. “But I should think that the root of my demise is apparent. Gin. Lots of it.”
Pawly huffed. “Not like you at all, my lord. Not at all. What has brought on this funk?”
“Not ‘what,’ my good man. ‘Who.’”
“Ah.” Pawly paused, a knowing smile touching his face. “And what particular aspect of Miss Fitzhenry is to blame for your mood?”
“Her clever mind, her damnable honor, just…just her,” Nicholas sputtered. He struggled to sit up on the sofa, losing his neckcloth and spilling a generous portion of gin down his shirt in the process. “She has decided that my father killed those girls. Killed Olivia. And that I have been protecting him.”
“Ah,” Pawly said again, this time nodding sagely.
“Indeed. And,” he added with an expansive sweep of his arm, the remaining gin in his glass sloshing wildly, “she wants me to go with her to Dowerdu in the morning. She thinks to find proof of my father’s guilt at the cottage. I told her I had the matter well in hand, but she will not let it go. Bloody hell.”
“Ah.” Pawly crossed the room to take the gin from Nicholas. Setting the glass by the bottle, he returned to help Nicholas out of his liquor-soaked shirt.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but perhaps you should give Miss Fitzhenry her head, let her discover what she will. This tricky business of protecting your father from the authorities while trying to protect the women of England from your father, it is taking its toll on you.”
“I am not protecting that randy old goat. I simply have no proof to offer the magistrate.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Nicholas loosed a low growl at the patronizing tone of Pawly’s voice. Did no one believe in his honor? Did they all believe him to be his father’s lapdog?
Nicholas leaned forward and began patting around on the floor, searching for…something. Neckcloth. Mustn’t go out without a neckcloth.
He surfaced with the crumpled scrap of linen in his hands and tried to wrap it around his neck. Somehow both ends kept appearing over the same shoulder. That would not work at all.
“Pawly, help me with this, would you?” Nicholas stumbled to his feet.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you cannot be thinking of going out tonight.”
“Of course. Someone has to keep watch.” Nicholas crossed his eyes to better focus on the uncooperative neckcloth.
“But, my lord, I don’t think you are in any condition to be traipsing about the countryside.” Pawly stepped closer, and, brushing Nicholas’s hands out of the way, took control of the wayward cravat.
“Nonsense,” Nicholas said, as he struggled to see what Pawly was doing. “Good show, Pawly. You have an excellent hand with the linen. But, nonsense!” he exclaimed again, returning to the issue of his outing. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
“Then at least let me accompany you,” Pawly coaxed. “You might need the extra hands.”
Curving his lips into a muzzy smile, Nicholas reached out and patted Pawly’s cheek. “I see through you, my man. You don’t think I can ride if Blackwell goes out tonight. But I assure you I am fine.” And, with that, Nicholas fell back on the sofa and the world went black.
When he opened his eyes again, Pawly was gone. The contrary cravat hung loose about Nicholas’s neck, and his boots were missing. The woolen blanket in which he had wrapped Mira now covered him.
Nicholas peered around the room, bleary-eyed, head filled with cotton wool. The ambient silvery light of dawn suffused the room, and he guessed it was maybe five o’clock.
He pushed the blanket aside and sat up, groaning in pain. His eyes felt like they were coated with sand. So did his tongue. More sleep would be good.
But he instead pulled on his boots and heaved himself to his feet.
Sleep would wait, but Blackwell would not. Nicholas had to find his father. He only prayed that his lapse of the night before had not cost some poor girl her life.