Authors: Danelle Harmon
"I am hardly an old woman," Gareth returned,
standing in front of the looking glass and carefully tying his
cravat. He wore a tailored coat of plum silk, cream breeches, and a
waistcoat embroidered with gold thread. His hair was tied back and
lightly powdered, his sword already at his hip. Unlike his friends,
Gareth had spent most of the last two weeks cooped up and bored,
and he was not about to pass another day, let alone this night, in
similar fashion. "Besides," he added derisively, "it was little
more than a flesh wound — a
scratch
, as Lucien called it.
Now." His gaze met theirs in the mirror. "Where to tonight?"
"Whist at Cokeham's?" suggested Sir Hugh
Rochester hopefully.
"Boring," said Gareth.
Neil Chilcot pulled out a half-shilling and
began flipping it in the air. "I hear Broughton's having a
cockfight in his barn...."
"I hate cockfights," Gareth declared.
"Lord Pemberley's mistress is rumored to be
doing her famous 'forbidden fruit' act tonight. I say we attend
that," murmured Tom Audlett, grinning and elbowing Hugh.
"No, no, none of that," Gareth muttered
impatiently, still standing before the looking glass and pulling at
the frothy lace until it lay just-so against his shirt and
waistcoat. He turned, perfectly handsome, perfectly tailored, and
perfectly innocent.
Looks were deceiving. There was nothing
innocent about Lord Gareth de Montforte at all.
"I am bored with endless rounds of drinking,
whoring, and gaming," he announced. "There must be something else,
something more exciting we can get up to without taking ourselves
all the way off to London...."
"Speaking of excitement, how's that fine bit
of muslin who saved your life, eh, Gareth?"
"Yes, have you made a
suitable
impression
upon her yet?"
Gareth grinned. "I am working on it."
"Ha! I can imagine what your despot of a
brother thinks about
that
!"
"Who gives a damn what he thinks? Lucien may
be Blackheath's master, but he sure as hell isn't mine. Now come,
let's go. The evening waits, and I simply cannot abide being in
this place another minute."
~~~~
It didn't take long for the notorious Den of
Debauchery — which had managed, through every fault of its own, to
become the bane of the Lambourn Downs — to get up to its usual
devilment.
The Den members had gone to the cockfight
after all; then to Pemberley's, and finally, after three bottles of
Chilcot's Irish whiskey, to the Speckled Hen opposite the village
green, which was where the trouble began. Jon Cokeham had started a
fight with one of the locals. Tom Audlett had refused to pay for an
ale whose taste he found inferior. And the rest of them had chatted
up and then fondled Tess and Lorna, the two serving wenches. The
girls were all too willing to drape themselves across the laps of
these well-bred, badly-behaved lads in favor of doing the work for
which they were paid; it was Fred Crawley, the landlord, who
finally got fed up.
He threw out the lot of them, including the
two women.
"Bloody 'ell, Gareth ... what're we going to
do now, eh?"
They stood in the road outside, grumbling
and cursing, all so foxed that not a soul amongst them could walk a
straight line. The two barmaids, giggling and flirting, were
partaking quite freely of Chilcot's Irish whiskey. One of them,
already tipsy, sidled up to Gareth and put her hand on his bottom;
the other ingratiated herself beneath his arm, slid her hand
beneath his waistcoat, and began rubbing his chest.
"Yes, Lord Gareth — what
are
we going
to do, hmmmm?"
He grinned down at them. Two weeks ago he
would've taken the invitation and run with it; after all, spending
an erotic night with two women at once was every man's dream — and
one he had frequently lived out in reality. Tonight, however, he
just wanted to go home.
To Juliet Paige.
"I don't know," he said, slightly baffled by
this rather strange reaction in himself.
Cokeham declared, "
I
have an idea how
we can get back at that cheeky bastard for throwing us out. We can
alter the scenery from his dining room window. You know, shock his
guests so they go somewhere else."
"Oh?"
Cokeham took a long swig of the whiskey;
then he pointed the bottle toward the village green and leaned
toward the girl beneath Gareth's arm. "Tess? Got any idea where we
can get some of that purple paint Crawley used on his front
door?"
~~~~
King Henry VIII on a rearing charger had
been the focal point of the green — and the pride of the village —
since Gareth's great-great-grandfather, the first duke, had had the
statue erected some time back in the previous century. Towering
above Ravenscombe's oft-used crossroads through which traffic to
and from Newbury, Swindon, Wantage and Lambourn all passed, it was
a fine work, commanding the eye as well as the attention. The
magnificent stone horse, rearing back on its hind legs with its
front hooves slashing the air, was noble and fiery; the monarch who
rode it, fiercely imperious. But tonight, poor old Henry had to
have been as miserable as any of his unfortunate wives ever were,
for a group of his most high-born subjects was clustered around the
statue's base, and they were up to no good.
No good at all.
That is, all but one of them stood around
the statue. Ten feet above their heads, their leader — who had
agreed to do the deed only because everyone had bet money that he
wouldn't dare (an incentive to get Gareth to do just about
anything) — was hanging from a rope slung around the steed's neck,
his feet braced against the statue's pedestal, his hand thrust up
beneath the stallion's hind legs.
"Having a good feel up there, Gareth? Sure
are taking a damned long time about it!"
"Can't blame him. Tisn't every day that a
man gets to grope a stone horse!"
"Wish I was hung half so well!"
"You mean you aren't, Chilcot?"
"Lord Gareth is!" cried Tess. "Why, 'e's
built foiner than any stallion
Oi've
ever seen, stone or
not!"
Drunken laughter rang out, both male and
female, and yet another bottle of Irish whiskey made its way among
the shadowy figures who stood, or rather swayed, beneath poor Henry
on his about-to-be-disgraced charger.
"Hey Gareth! Didn't know yer pref'rences ran
to —
hic!
— bestiality! What else haven't you tol' us about
yershelf, eh?"
"Shut up down there, you bacon-brains,"
Gareth said. "D'you want to wake up the whole damned village?" But
he was as foxed as the rest of them, and no one took him
seriously.
"
Hic!
— c'mon, Gareth, it can't take
you more than five minutes to —
hic!
— paint its bollocks
blue!"
"This is not blue, it's purple. Royal
purple. As befits its royal rider."
Chilcot gave a credible imitation of a
neighing stallion. Cokeham snorted, horselike, and clutched his
stomach as he tried to contain his laughter. But the Irish whiskey
was too much for him, and, losing his balance, he fell
face first into the damp grass, still guffawing and holding
his side. "Oh! Oh, I fear I shall cast up my accounts if this keeps
up ... oh, dear God...."
Without missing a beat, Gareth dipped his
brush in the paint and flicked it over the bewigged and powdered
heads of his friends below.
Howls pierced the night as he calmly went
back to his task.
"A plague on you, Gareth! —
hic
—
you've jesht ruined my best wig!"
"To hell with your damned wig, Hugh, look
what he just did to my coat!"
Chilcot gave another equine whicker, tucked
his chin, and with his beautifully turned out leg began pawing the
ground.
"Shhhh h h h h h h!"
"Oh ... oh, I do feel sick...."
"Keep it up, you pillocks, and I shall dump
the entire bucket on your heads," Gareth called down from above.
Wrapping his hand around the rope, he pulled himself up a little
higher to relieve the tension on his left arm and began smearing
paint on the horse's other testicle. "One done, one to go, just
call me ... Gainsborough."
A mouthful of whiskey shot out of Hugh's
mouth and he collapsed in a fit of laughter. Perry made choking
noises, and guffaws echoed all around.
"Reynolds, Romney, Ho garth, God help
me, I'm going to barf," cried Cokeham, still rolling on the ground
and laughing. "Oh, that's horrid, Gareth, positively horrid!"
Gareth grinned, quite amused with himself.
"I'm no poet and well I know it. More paint, my dear fellows. And
mind you don't trip and spill it. We're starting to run low."
He tossed the empty bucket down, not
particularly caring where it landed. It hit the statue's base,
making a dreadful, clanging racket that could probably have been
heard all the way to the Seven Barrows. Hugh dumped in more paint.
Chilcot, still pawing the ground, picked up the bucket handle with
his teeth and, whickering, cantered once around the statue, the
bucket swinging precariously and splashing paint all down the front
of his elegant lace cravat and expensive waistcoat. Snorting and
neighing, he pranced to a stop just beneath Gareth where, with the
help of his cohorts, he managed to hook the bucket on the end of a
long pole and push it up toward their leader.
It swayed back and forth near Gareth's ear,
threatening to tip its contents over the primped and powdered heads
below. He snared it and loaded the brush up with more paint so he
could apply a second coat to his masterpiece. "I can't see a damned
thing up here," he said, pushing the brush up into the darkened
cavern between the steed's hind legs and hoping he'd found the
right spot. "How the devil am I supposed to paint its balls if I
can't even see them? Fine mess we'll be in if I paint its stomach
instead!"
"Fine mess we'll be in if your brother finds
out who did this."
"Bloody 'ell, Gareth, hurry up!"
Snickers, more laughter. The
long suffering king, silhouetted against the night sky, stared
off across the high brows of the downs as though seeking the help
of a sympathetic god. Divine intervention would not be forthcoming
but ducal intervention very well might, and every one of the Den
members knew it.
Gareth's brother had a habit of turning up
when he was least expected.
Or wanted.
"Finished!" Gareth announced. "I'm coming
down now."
"Did you get its prick, as well?"
"Oh, sod you, Perry!"
Tess called up, loudly, "Paintin' its
bollocks without doin' its prick ain't good enough, Lord
Gareth!"
The bucket weaved close, swinging against
the night sky. "Ouch!" Gareth cried as it smacked his ear, nearly
knocking him from his perch. Angrily, he flicked more paint down on
the hapless heads below. "Damn you, Hugh, watch it, would you?"
More laughter. Gareth, annoyed now and
beginning to wish he really
had
gone home, leaned back
against the rope, trying to find his footing. Was he getting too
old for this nonsense? For some reason he couldn't fathom, this was
no longer even
fun
.
Moments later he was finished, tossing the
paintbrush blindly over his shoulder, not caring where it
landed.
Thump.
"Son of a bitch!"
"That's it. I'm coming down as soon as I get
the rope."
He stood up on the narrow pedestal, one hand
braced on the king's thigh for balance as he tried to reach the
noose, snugged tight just behind the horse's left ear. Pain,
faraway and detached, came from his rib, still a little raw. He
ignored it.
"I can't reach it. Somebody pass me up a
stick or something, and I'll try to slip it under the noose and off
the head."
"Could always burn it off," Perry mused.
"Or make a halter out of it," added
Audlett.
"How 'bout if you —"
"Just get me a damned stick!" Gareth
snapped, growing impatient with both his friends
and
the
situation.
Cokeham roused himself and, on hands and
knees, fell to rooting around in the grass, snuffling and making
pig like noises. "Oink, oink!"
Audlett belched.
Sir Hugh Rochester, baronet, expelled a loud
puff of gas that came from regions much lower.
And the two women began singing
drunkenly.
Oh, God help me. I think I need a new set
of friends.
Fed up with the lot of them, Gareth hoisted himself
up so that he was sitting astride the horse just in front of the
king. He drew his feet up beneath him and, holding onto the rope
for balance, got to his feet, stretching his body full length
along the crest of the horse's neck as he reached for the
noose.
He couldn't ... quite ... reach it.
Damn.
He pulled himself forward
another inch, his rib screaming in protest even through the haze of
whiskey-induced numbness. Buttons popped off his coat. His shirt
tore. Kicking for a foothold on either side of the horse's neck, he
found only empty space. He made a desperate grab for the noose.
Missed. Far below him, the others began calling bets.
"Two guineas he won't do it in the next
thirty seconds!"
"I'll up you to five pounds —"
"Oink, oink,
ereeeeeeeeach
!"
And then Gareth felt himself beginning to
slide backward.
Cursing, he dug both knees against the cold
stone neck — and kept sliding. Scrambling madly, he made another
grab for the rope and had just snared it when Chilcot cried,
"Bloody 'ell, Gareth, someone's coming up the road! Crawley must've
called in the constable or something!"
"Damnation!
"
It all happened at once. Cokeham abandoned
both the ground and his pig impersonations and fled, howling,
into the night. Chilcot grabbed the bucket of paint, tossed it into
a ditch, and took flight himself, running like a hare over the
downs. Perry dashed toward a nearby tithe barn, the two tipsy women
collapsed, giggling, against the base of the statue, and Hugh and
Audlett scattered, one for the village, the other stumbling after
Cokeham and yelling for all he was worth. One by one, his friends
all deserted him — leaving Gareth stretched full length atop
the horse's stone neck with the rope in one hand and his feet
sliding mercilessly down toward Henry's loins.