Giddings opened the door to find His Lordship standing upon the step, his face set in such rigid lines a shiver went down his spine. It was a relief when the Earl of Walton looked straight through him as he handed over his hat and coat, turning immediately towards the door to the salon. Thank God young Conningsby had taken it into his head to pass out on one of the sofas in there, instead of staggering back to his own lodgings the previous night. It was far better that it should be a man who could answer back, rather than a hapless member of staff, who became the butt of His Lordshipâs present mood.
But Charles Algernon Fawley, the ninth Earl of Walton, ignored Conningsby too. Striding across the room to the sideboard, he merely unstoppered a crystal decanter, pouring its entire contents into the last clean tumbler upon the tray.
Conningsby opened one eye warily, and rolled it in the Earlâs direction. âBreakfast at Tortoniâs?â he grated hoarsely.
Charles tossed the glass of brandy back in one go, and reached for the decanter again.
âDonât look as though you enjoyed it much,â Conningsby observed, wincing as he struggled to sit up.
âNo.â As the Earl realised the decanter was empty, his fingers curled round its neck as though he wished he could strangle it. âAnd if you dare say I told you so â¦â
âWouldnât dream of it, my lord. But what I will say isââ
âNo. I listened to all you had to say last night, and, while I am grateful for your concern, my decision remains the same. I am not going to slink out of Paris with my tail between my legs like some whipped cur. I will not have it said that some false, painted jilt has made the slightest impact on my heart. I am staying until the lease on this apartment expires, not one hour sooner. Do you hear me?â
Conningsby raised a feeble hand to his brow. âOnly too clearly.â He eyed the empty decanter ruefully. And while youâre proving to the whole world that you donât care a rap about your betrothed running off with some penniless artist, I donât suppose you could get your man to rustle up some coffee, could you?â
âEngraver,â snapped the Earl as he tugged viciously on the bell-pull.
Conningsby sank back into the sofa cushions, waving a languid hand to dismiss the profession of the Earlâs betrothedâs lover as the irrelevance it was. âJudging by the expression on your face, the gossip-mongers have already been at work. Itâs not going to get any easier for you â¦â
âMy mood now has nothing whatever to do with the fickle Mademoiselle Bergeron,â he snarled. âIt is her countrymenâs actions which could almost induce me to leave this vile charnel house that calls itself a civilised city and return to London, where the most violent emotion I am likely to suffer is acute boredom.â
âBut it was boredom you came to Paris to escape from!â
He let the inaccuracy of that remark pass. Staying in London, with his crippled half-brother, had simply become intolerable. Seeking refuge down at Wycke had not been a viable alternative, either. There was no respite from what ailed him there. The very opulence of the vast estate only served as a painful reminder of the injustice that had been perpetrated so that he could inherit it all.
Paris had seemed like the perfect solution. Since Bonaparte had abdicated, it had become extremely fashionable to hop across the Channel to see the sights.
Leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, he remarked, with an eloquent shudder, âI will never complain of that particular malady again, I do assure you.â
âWhat is it?â Conningsby asked. âWhat else has happened?â
âAnother murder.â
âDu Mauriac again, I take it?â Conningsbyâs face was grim. The French officer was gaining a reputation for provoking hot-headed young Englishmen to duel with him, and dispatching them with a ruthless efficiency gleaned from his years of active service. And then celebrating his kill by breakfasting on broiled kidneys at Tortoniâs. âWho was it this morning? Not anybody we know, I hope?â