The carriage drew up outside his townhouse and Miles, with a glance up and down the street but without waiting for Lynch, alighted and took the front steps in two strides.
His butler opened the door before he could touch a hand to the knocker – the perks of being an earl – and Miles shook off his wet greatcoat.
“My lord,” Fairfax said in hushed tones, “Mr Firth is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
“Alasdair? I hope you hid the whisky.”
“The elder Mr Firth, my lord.”
“Jeremy?” Miles’ eyebrows rose. “That’s a first. Bring some repast then, will you? I’ll see what he wants.”
With a nod, his butler turned for the kitchens and Miles made for the drawing room.
A clock chimed a quarter to eight and he rolled his shoulders, entered to…
No one was there.
Frowning, he walked back out again, was about to call Fairfax when he noticed the door opposite was ajar.
His study door.
And a fleeting flicker of candlelight within.
With three silent steps and a soft touch, he pushed the door a little wider.
There, outlined by the light of a single candlestick, was his cousin Jeremy.
He was inspecting a quarter-decanter of brandy against the candle’s flame before he removed a small bottle from his jacket pocket.
With care, he flipped the lid, flicked five black drops into the decanter and then replaced the bottle to his pocket.
The decanter was then swirled back and forth, forth and back, the black liquid leeching to naught.
A heaviness settled within Miles, as though molten lead had been poured into his innards.
For Jeremy to have stolen into his study at this time of the eve, adding liquid to Miles’ decanters, led to a not-very-pleasant conclusion.
So he swung the door wide. “Jeremy?”
“Argh!” His cousin jumped like a raw recruit firing off his first musket.
Miles grimaced. “What are you doing in here?”
The elder Firth wore a debonair dark-green jacket along with an un-fussy cravat. He still held the decanter of brandy.
Would he offer a glass? Pretend innocence?
“I… I need…to ask…” Jeremy’s feet shuffled, slender fingers tugging at his cravat before he turned and reached for a brandy glass.
Gritting his teeth, Miles watched as he poured a half measure from the decanter and then…slugged the liquor in one.
Miles frowned. “What was in that?”
“Huh?”
“You added something? To the decanter.”
“Oh.” He grabbed the small bottle from his pocket and waggled it. “Concentrated feverfew and some other herby stuff. Prevents the damn megrims. Tastes foul so I mix some brandy with it. There was none in the drawing room but Dair said you kept some in here and there’s not much left in this decanter. It’s easier to mix, you see, and… T-that’s alright, isn’t it?”
