Chapter 2

He strode to the front door and ran lightly down the steps. The relief from Blackstone was palpable. Hell’s teeth. The stink of alcohol was overwhelming. He was an absolute disgrace. Clothes that were clearly of the best cut but looked slept in, hair awry with no sign of a hat, and to cap it all he lay prone, laughing to himself. When Charles went to render assistance, the lad simply belched and then laughed harder, hands clasping his stomach and rolling onto his side as though it were the funniest thing. Charles wanted to stuff him back in the carriage and send him back from whence he came. It was only the promise he had made that prevented him from doing so, and even then, he was sorely tempted.

“Where is Coulson?” Charles asked.

“I am here, Captain.”

Charles looked up to see his butler coming down the steps. He looked at the giggling man with equal parts disdain and horror and then looked questioningly at Charles.

“I know,” Charles said, shaking his head. “I know.”

Blackstone, his groom, was a strapping man. A corporal in Wellington’s army, he and Coulson had served together and survived together with him. Blackstone looked first at Charles, then at Coulson, and rolled his eyes. “I suppose we’d best get him in.” He went to take one of Farrah’s arms as Charles took the other and Coulson, the smallest of the three, stood behind him and steadied him.

“Looks like he’s going to shoot the cat,” Blackstone muttered.

Charles shuddered. “If he looks even remotely like he’s going to vomit, he’s staying out here.”

Between them, they dragged the lad to his feet. He was huge. Tall, and, it would appear, well-muscled. He gamely attempted to assist in the process, offering slurred apologies at various intervals interspersed with hiccoughs.

“S’okay gennlemen, I never cast up my accounts through drink.” He grinned at Charles but seemed to be having difficulty focusing. His eyes were the darkest brown, an unusual contrast to his golden hair. When he smiled a dimple appeared in one cheek which annoyed Charles for some reason.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Charles said, and staggered a little, catching him as he threatened to overbalance. “What in God’s name have you been drinking?”

Farrah looked at him again and tried unsuccessfully to focus. “Dunno…Eddie said you don’t drink much so thought I’d best take advantage of the journey.”

He managed to stand upright, hiccough twice, then shook himself and looked Charles unsteadily in the eye. Standing over six feet meant not many people could do that, but the lad stood on a level with him.

As his gaze steadied, he tilted his head on one side, looked him up and down, and gave a lopsided smile. “You’re pretty. Eddie never said you were pretty.”

* * * *

Charles helped Coulson drag the laughing, hiccoughing Farrah up the stairs to his bedchamber with his words ringing in his ears. You’re pretty. Eddie never said you were pretty. They deposited him on the bed and divested him of his coat and boots. He lay sprawled on his back. Eyes closed, mouth wide open. Coulson put a clean chamber pot on the night stand and prodded him.

“If you feel ill, use this. Do not vomit on my clean bedding.”

Farrah snorted. He was fast asleep. That, or unconscious.

Coulson grabbed his arm and rolled him onto his side. Farrah made a soft humming sound and settled his head into the pillow and made to pull the blankets up over his shoulder. He gave up after coming up with nothing but air after a few attempts. He lay there. Mouth open, snoring.

“How long have we got him for, sir?”

Charles closed his eyes and swallowed. “A month.”

“Thought that was what you said.”

They stared at the bed in silence for a moment until Coulson spoke again. “Nothing much like his brother, is he?”

Charles shook his head. He was nothing at all like Edward. Not like him to look at, and certainly not like him in temperament. “Not a jot. I’m really not certain what I’m supposed to be doing with him.”

“Stopping him drinking himself to death, you said?”

Coulson nodded, not taking his eyes from the man who lay on the bed. “How old is he?”

Charles considered a moment. “He’ll be two and twenty, perhaps three and twenty?”

“Not a boy then.”

Charles sighed. “No, not a boy. He looked at the figure on the bed. He had drawn his knees up towards his chest and tucked his hands between his thighs. It made him look young. Innocent, even.

“Can’t say we’ve made a very good start on stopping him drinking.” Coulson rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “Do we know why he’s that way? Lost love?”

“I really have no idea and neither do his family. He wants to enlist.”

Coulson looked up at him. “Might be the making of him.”

“Exactly what I said. His brother doesn’t want him to. He’s already lost two brothers. Doesn’t want to lose another. Fair enough really.”

“I dare say he’ll keep us entertained,” Coulson muttered before turning to leave.