by Joan Smith
He smiled in relief. “I’ll be careful, love. Now that I have you, I don’t plan to take any chances.”
He drew her up from the seat and led her to bed.
* * * *
In his bedroom, Prance stood at his window, looking out. Despite his fatigue, he had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t his aching ribs that kept him awake, but plotting his new novel. It would follow roughly the path of this latest case, but he wanted a really stunning beginning. His own attack that night in Long Acre was the logical place, but he disliked Baron Wolfried to be anything but a winner, right from the start.
It came to him in a flash. He would overpower the two — no, make it three — men who attacked him. Just as he brandished his sword over their heads, a whole host of Frenchies would fly out from the bushes. Even Wolfried would not be expected to overpower twenty men.
He saw Coffen leave Corinne’s house on unsteady feet. As he suspected, there was no sign of a butler to let him in. No doubt all the doors were left unlocked while his servants drank up his wine in the kitchen — or the saloon, for that matter. They made free of his whole house. What he needed was a stern hand to run the place properly. Someone like Black. What a gorgeous notion! He would tell Coffen tomorrow.
“What are we doing out of bed at this hour, milord?” Villier demanded from the doorway.
“I’m having a little trouble sleeping,” Prance said, holding his arm around his ribs.
“I thought as much. I was having trouble myself and have made up this posset, well laced with brandy. Now don’t argue. I know you don’t like posset, but it’s just something to dilute the brandy a little.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
Villier set down the posset pot and cups, led him to bed and drew back the coverlet. “I’ve had a gorgeous notion, Sir Reggie. You’ll love it. You know the layers of capes the gentlemen wear on their greatcoats, and what a lovely set of shoulders they give. We’ll add a couple of capelets to your cape! Only two or three, each lined with red. It will look gorgeous with the black cape. What do you think?” He waited anxiously for the reaction.
“But we had decided against the cape and slouch hat.”
“Certainly the hat must go, but the cape looks so dashing on you I hate to part with it.”
“I must confess I did enjoy giving it that twirl over my shoulder.” Prance considered Villier’s suggestion and found it good. “I’ll take my cape down to Weston in the morning and see what he thinks. I wonder now if red is a little gaudy for the lining. Perhaps blue ...”
“Or gold,” Villier suggested, drawing a chair up to the bedside and pouring the posset, sleep forgotten with these important matters to settle.
Copyright © 2015 by Joan Smith
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is
coincidental.
