the question in favor of one of his own. “You’ve had an interesting night, I’m told.”
Mr. Seager made some sort of scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Nothing interesting about it. Horrifying, that’s what it was. To think of the attention I’ve devoted Miss Meldrin, only to find her family hasn’t the sense to toss Miss Byerly’s father in an asylum where he belongs. Wager you weren’t aware they kept a madman in the house, either.”
While Mr. Seager slurped at his drink, William let that bit of information sink in. There it was, then--the reason Patience had left him. Her father hadn’t been in his cups the night of Lord Welsing’s ball, and he wasn’t suffering from a physical ailment now. He was mad.
The revelation prompted several emotions at once—sorrow for Patience, hurt that she hadn’t trusted him enough to share her burden, and most prevalent at present, anger at the man who would so carelessly spill Patience’s most guarded secret.
Realizing his hands were curling into fists, William made a conscious effort to relax them. “It’s bad form to gossip about a family whose table you’ve only just come from, don’t you think? Bad form to gossip about a lady at all, really.”
Mr. Seager blinked slowly, as if trying to wrap his mind around a rather complicated puzzle. “Beg pardon?”
William resisted the urge to take hold of the man and shake some sense into him. Instead, he tried a more direct approach. “I believe you’re expecting a living from Viscount Wentwise in the near future?”
“Er, yes.” The man frowned and lifted his glass again.
William reached out, snatched it out of his hand, and set it out of reach. “Do I have your full attention, Mr. Seager? Because I should like to make myself absolutely clear on a particular matter.”
“I’m listening.” Mr. Seager’s voice came out perilously close to a whine. It was just irritating enough that when he reached out to reclaim his glass, William took some pleasure in slapping back his hand.
“Ouch! What the devil--?”
“If I hear a word,” William said slowly and, lest the oaf try to claim a misunderstanding, very clearly, “a single whispered word of what you witnessed tonight from anyone, you will lose your living. In fact, I’ll make it my life’s work tosee there is not a vicarage available to you in all of Britain. Do you understand?”
Mr. Seager gaped at him. “You can’t do that.”
“Really? Shall we put it to the test?”
“You. . .I. . .My grandfather is the Marquess of Bruckhaven.”
“I imagine if the Marquess had the inclination to support the third son of his second daughter, you wouldn’t be in search of a living. But I could be mistaken.”
“This is an outrage.”
“I prefer to think of it as coming to an understanding.” He held Mr. Seager’s gaze for a moment. “
Do
we have an understanding?”
The younger man dropped his eyes and nodded miserably.
“Excellent.”
With that ugly bit of business concluded, William returned Mr. Seager’s glass and took his leave. He walked out the front door feeling both grimly satisfied by the visit, and still painfully deflated by Patience’s news of an early departure.
It was the latter that prompted him to follow through with his idea of becoming foxed. Well,
that
and for the satisfaction of knowing he was still capable, if he really put his mind to it, of seeing at least one of his plans come to fruition.
His attempt was met with great success, much to his regret the following morning. He woke and dressed battling a tremendous headache, and lurched his way to the breakfast room determined to conquer the rebellion in his stomach with a proper meal. And fought his way through his first cup of coffee while contemplating the notion that his problem was not so much a recent inability to follow through with his plans, but the far more worrisome inability to devise a plan that did not lead to disaster.
Had he really expressed
Mr. Seager made some sort of scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Nothing interesting about it. Horrifying, that’s what it was. To think of the attention I’ve devoted Miss Meldrin, only to find her family hasn’t the sense to toss Miss Byerly’s father in an asylum where he belongs. Wager you weren’t aware they kept a madman in the house, either.”
While Mr. Seager slurped at his drink, William let that bit of information sink in. There it was, then--the reason Patience had left him. Her father hadn’t been in his cups the night of Lord Welsing’s ball, and he wasn’t suffering from a physical ailment now. He was mad.
The revelation prompted several emotions at once—sorrow for Patience, hurt that she hadn’t trusted him enough to share her burden, and most prevalent at present, anger at the man who would so carelessly spill Patience’s most guarded secret.
Realizing his hands were curling into fists, William made a conscious effort to relax them. “It’s bad form to gossip about a family whose table you’ve only just come from, don’t you think? Bad form to gossip about a lady at all, really.”
Mr. Seager blinked slowly, as if trying to wrap his mind around a rather complicated puzzle. “Beg pardon?”
William resisted the urge to take hold of the man and shake some sense into him. Instead, he tried a more direct approach. “I believe you’re expecting a living from Viscount Wentwise in the near future?”
“Er, yes.” The man frowned and lifted his glass again.
William reached out, snatched it out of his hand, and set it out of reach. “Do I have your full attention, Mr. Seager? Because I should like to make myself absolutely clear on a particular matter.”
“I’m listening.” Mr. Seager’s voice came out perilously close to a whine. It was just irritating enough that when he reached out to reclaim his glass, William took some pleasure in slapping back his hand.
“Ouch! What the devil--?”
“If I hear a word,” William said slowly and, lest the oaf try to claim a misunderstanding, very clearly, “a single whispered word of what you witnessed tonight from anyone, you will lose your living. In fact, I’ll make it my life’s work tosee there is not a vicarage available to you in all of Britain. Do you understand?”
Mr. Seager gaped at him. “You can’t do that.”
“Really? Shall we put it to the test?”
“You. . .I. . .My grandfather is the Marquess of Bruckhaven.”
“I imagine if the Marquess had the inclination to support the third son of his second daughter, you wouldn’t be in search of a living. But I could be mistaken.”
“This is an outrage.”
“I prefer to think of it as coming to an understanding.” He held Mr. Seager’s gaze for a moment. “
Do
we have an understanding?”
The younger man dropped his eyes and nodded miserably.
“Excellent.”
With that ugly bit of business concluded, William returned Mr. Seager’s glass and took his leave. He walked out the front door feeling both grimly satisfied by the visit, and still painfully deflated by Patience’s news of an early departure.
It was the latter that prompted him to follow through with his idea of becoming foxed. Well,
that
and for the satisfaction of knowing he was still capable, if he really put his mind to it, of seeing at least one of his plans come to fruition.
His attempt was met with great success, much to his regret the following morning. He woke and dressed battling a tremendous headache, and lurched his way to the breakfast room determined to conquer the rebellion in his stomach with a proper meal. And fought his way through his first cup of coffee while contemplating the notion that his problem was not so much a recent inability to follow through with his plans, but the far more worrisome inability to devise a plan that did not lead to disaster.
Had he really expressed
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