Chapter Eighteen
The awful sinking feeling made Alexander feel as if he’d swallowed his heart.
The piece of paper he’d picked out of the hat – he was sure Abigail would guess it, as it was the title of her favourite play, Much Ado About Nothing. He’d already planned how he would act it out, clowning around and making her laugh.
And then there was that horrible noise, the door banged open, and who should stumble inside but Hamish.
Poor, wretched Hamish, who’d obviously convinced one of the more impressionable servants to get him some alcohol one way or another.
Stupid Hamish, who was quite clearly drunk again.
He came stumbling into the room, grubby and unshaven and stinking of alcohol, his shirt untucked and undone at the neck, a large, unpleasant-looking stain of something on the thigh of one of his trouser legs. He was wearing dancing slippers, for some reason, and they were too loose on him, slapping against his feet with every step. His hair stuck straight up, and one glance at his slack face and reddened, bleary eyes told them all that he was – to put it politely – not himself.
“So this is where the party’s at,” Hamish slurred, grinning absently at the young debutante, Lord Donovan’s partner. The girl shrank back, glancing about her for her mother.
“Lord Grey,” William said sharply, stepping in front of Hamish. “You are not yourself. You are quite clearly in your cups, which is entirely inappropriate for a gathering like this, and certainly not proper in the presence of ladies. You’ll be so good as to remove yourself at once.”
Hamish blinked lazily at him, and Alexander’s heart sank further.
He recognized that look. He’d seen it on Hamish and other friends before, and he’d experienced it himself. It was the level of drunkenness where a person could no longer function properly. It was beyond dizziness and vomiting. Hamish would not – could not – listen to reason. He likely could not hear anything, and was only clutching to some odd, preconceived idea of what was going on, fueled by whiskey-addled senses. It could be a dangerous thing, too. Even the mildest men could lash out at a time like this. Alexander swallowed hard, pushing in between William and Hamish.
If Hamish was going to strike anyone – he’d never hit anyone before, but there was a first occasion for anything – he was jolly well going to hit Alexander instead of William.
“Hamish, old boy, I thought you were in bed,” Alexander said, with forced joviality. “You said you were tired, and not feeling well. Do you think you have a fever?”
He moved as if to lay a hand on Hamish’s forehead. It was a mistake. Hamish knocked his hand away with an audible slap , and a shocked gasp ran around the room.
Hamish rounded on the other guests, glaring balefully.
“Oh, and what are you all looking at, with your stupid, blank faces? Like you’ve never had one tipple too many.”
“No, I have not,” Lord Donovan remarked acidly. Alexander glared at him.
Now is not the time to be snide, you fool!
Hamish made a few tottering steps towards Lord Donovan, who paled and shrank back into his seat. However, Hamish’s balance was not faring well, and he wobbled sideways, arms flailing to catch himself. He knocked against one of the sideboards, making the most horrible clatter, and a tall vase set on one of the shelves began to rock.
Alexander knew what was happening before it did. The vase had gone past the point of no return, and rocked slowly to and fro before giving up altogether. Toppling down from the high shelf, Alexander watched it fall, noting miserably that it had been a present from his grandmother to his mother.
Crash . The vase shattered into a hundred pieces, small bits of porcelain showering the skirts of a nearby woman. She darted away with a gasp, shaking her dress to dislodge any remaining pieces.
“Oops,” Hamish mumbled, smiling blearily around. “That was an accident. Alex, tell them it was an accident? Alex and me, we’re friends. Good friends. We know all each other’s secrets, just as friends should.”
Alexander stiffened. He glanced briefly over at William, whose face was white. He did not look at his younger brother.
“Hamish, why don’t you let me walk you out?” Alexander tried again. He generally had no trouble marshalling a drunk Hamish in their various pubs and clubs, but here, in the quiet gentility of his mother’s drawing room, things felt very different.
Hamish glowered at him. “Am I embarrassing you, Alexander?”
“You are embarrassing yourself, sir,” William rapped out. Hamish turned his vague glare onto him.
Alexander bit the inside of his cheek. You aren’t helping, Will.
“Oh, an embarrassment, am I? Perhaps I should act in a more gentlemanly manner,” he tottered forward, wobbling for no apparent reason, and let out a loud belch.
Then Lady Caldecott rose to her feet, clapping her hands. It broke the spell of horrified silence that lay over the rest of the guests.
“We shall go into one of the morning-rooms,” she announced firmly. “With your permission of course, Mary. It is not kind to watch Lord Grey when he is unwell. Lord Alexander, your Grace, can you manage him?”
William gave a short nod. “Yes. Thank you, Lady Caldecott.”
The spell was broken, and suddenly the guests could not get out quickly enough. Lord Donovan edged warily past Hamish and hurried out into the hallway, not bothering to wait for the pale debutante.
Hamish’s head wobbled to and fro as the guests filed out.
“Where are you all going? No need to rush off. Fine, then. Be like that. Alex and I don’t care, do we?”
Alexander bit his lip hard. When he wouldn’t meet Hamish’s gaze, he saw his friend jerk back a little, as if hurt.
“You want me to make a scene?” Hamish snarled, whipping towards the sideboard again. “Very well.”
He picked up another ornament, a china figurine of a shepherdess, and held it out pointedly. He dropped it.
Crash .
Alexander squeezed his eyes shut.
The last of the guests hurried out, whispering eagerly between themselves. Lady Caldecott went last, holding tight to her niece’s hand and almost herding a pale-faced Mary ahead of her.
Abigail didn’t look at anyone as she left, keeping her eyes fixed on her own feet. Alexander watched her go, willing her to look at him so he could shrug or roll his eyes, or do anything to let her know that he did not approve of Hamish’s behaviour and that he would never do such a thing.
Well, not anymore.
“The footmen are coming to assist,” Lady Caldecott added in an undertone as she passed through the doorway. “I suspect you’ll need help to get him to his room.”
“Thank you,” William repeated, raking a hand through his hair. “I know you won’t repeat this shameful story, but I can’t expect as much from others.”
Lady Caldecott gave a sharp nod. “I’ll do my best to suppress gossip, but as you say, the story will get out regardless.”
Alexander’s heart sank. This occasion would reflect poorly on them all. As Hamish’s friend and the one who had invited him there, blame would fall heavily on him. Hamish’s reputation was likely not able to be saved at this point, but men could generally claw back some respectability after a while.
Unfairly enough, it was William who would come out the worst of this. It was his house. He was the duke. The behaviour of his guests was his responsibility, and any shocking events that took place in his home would reflect directly upon him.
Alexander glanced anxiously at his brother.
“Will, I…”
“I am not sure I can ever forgive you for this,” William stated, before Alexander could finish. “I told you not to bring him here, and you ignored me. And now look at what has happened.”
Alexander opened his mouth, not entirely sure what he was going to say. Apologies, perhaps, some silly excuses. There was no time for any of it, of course.
The footmen arrived, four of them, grim-faced and serious. The butler trotted behind, looking tired.
“Forgive me, your Grace,” he murmured to William, as the footmen began to wrestle a struggling Hamish out of the room. “It seems that he bribed one of the under-gardeners to bring up a decanter of whiskey. I believe he called to him from the window. The boy came into the house to bring it, and left the door unlocked. The fault is mine.”
“No, actually,” William responded tightly. “The fault is my brother’s.”
There was no more talking after that.
Hamish was escorted upstairs, probably more roughly than was necessary. He was placed back in his room, and this time a footman was left on duty outside his door, and another outside the window. William did not say a word to Alexander, only turned on his heel and strode away into the depths of the house once it was all over, carrying a candle to light his way into the darkness.
Alexander stood there for a moment, in the hallway outside of Hamish’s room. He’d heard from talk between the servants that the party downstairs was broken up, unsurprisingly. After the Incident, as people were calling it, they had all been keen to get themselves to bed as soon as possible.
Alexander did not go to bed. He went downstairs to the drawing room, where maids were still clearing up the mess of broken china in front of the sideboard. Ignoring their curious stares, Alexander took out a decanter of brandy, and began to drink.