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Chapter Twelve
“Another, if you will,” James slurred at a nearby footman, the only one walking the floor at such an early hour. “And leave the bottle this time, please.”
The servant paused with a concerned frown. “Pardon, Milord. But perhaps you wish to wait? That was your third glass in the span of an hour.” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “Lord Clifton has a policy about belligerence.”
James turned his head from where’d he’d been laying it face down on the table and peered up at the younger man with one half-opened eye. “Do I seem like I’m making a fuss, drunk as I am? Or is quietly weeping into a table considered belligerent here?”
“I suppose not, milord,” the footman said after a short pause. “But people are staring.” He finished the sentence with a purposeful look about the room. It was true. The few patrons bustling about had been quite poor in their attempts to hide their delighted curiosity at his presence. Their whispers, if they could even be called that, had been whirring around him from the moment he’d wandered in. James had stopped caring around the second glass or so.
“You pity me. Is that it?”
The man’s face remained calm. “A bit, yes,” he replied mildly.
“You lot are an impertinent bunch, aren’t you? Be sure to give Clifton my complaints.” Wherever the man was. James was mildly surprised he hadn’t shown up to gloat yet.
“Of course, milord.”
“And get me that whisky.”
“I will do my best.”
James only replied with a grumble and a wave of his arm before turning his face back into the table. He heard the footman quietly pad away, hopefully to acquire the spirits he’d requested. What else was a man to do when his entire life had fallen apart in the span of a day? It’d been scarcely a few hours since that horrid audience with Eliza, his heartbreak still so raw that he wanted to retch. Or was that just the whiskey? “Godammit,” he muttered in embarrassment as his eyes watered once more. He’d been doing so well in the past twenty minutes at keeping the maudlin waterworks at bay. Several minutes passed, his irritation simmering as his drink had yet to appear. And then, small, quiet footsteps sounded, followed by the clink of a glass being set before him. “Good god, man. Finally.” He raised his head just enough to see his drink and then scowled. “Is that a bloody lemonade?”
“Yes, and it would serve you well to drink it,” a woman chided. He sat up straight as Francesca pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. For one brief, humiliating moment, he’d thought it had been Eliza’s voice. How pathetically absurd.
“Fine.” Knowing better than to argue with the lady of the house, James swiped the glass and took a grimacing gulp of the tangy beverage.
“I’ve just returned from a shopping trip,” Francesca informed him. “Imagine my surprise when I was told that Viscount Dalton was making a hot mess of himself in the corner.”
“I would think such things aren’t odd for a place like this,” he quipped back, trying his best to play off the hand bracing on the table as not being the only thing keeping him from tipping out of his chair.
“It’s two in the afternoon, James. We only opened an hour ago. Arthur is still asleep, for goodness’ sakes.”
“I have had the worst morning of my life.”
“You must have, to be putting on such a display.” Her countenance softened. “Did your meeting with Lady Aircourt not go well? Arthur told me about it last night.”
Ah, there went his damn eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything.”
“We’ve already resolved that.”
He blinked back the burn. “You are right, but I understand how you felt now, how much damage I did in leading you on.” The pain was almost unbearable, and he wondered how Francesca had managed to deal with it so well.
“That was different,” she said and slid her hand across the table to give his fingers a gentle pat. “You never loved me in the first place. The lie was what hurt the most, not the parting.”
He shook his head. “But it is the same. She never loved me, either.”
Francesca furrowed her brow. “What? Impossible. She was besotted with you, and everyone knew it. Tell me what happened.”
He opened his mouth the tell her the tale in its awful entirety and correct what everyone had apparently thought, but was interrupted by another voice butting in to their conversation.
“I see the rat has come to wallow,” Lord Aircourt drawled in amusement as he rounded their table. “Your sordid plot to trap Eliza didn’t come to fruition, I assume.”
“I do not believe you were invited to converse with us, sir?” Francesca said with a glare.
“That is Lord Aircourt to you,” the earl replied with thinly veiled disdain. “Really, Dalton? It’s been a scant few hours and you’ve already found a harlot for the evening?”
Francesca looked down at her day dress with mild amusement. “Am I dressed like a harlot?”
