That every man with hand and heart must sing the same true ditty…”
Edmund fell back against the wall with laughter at his friend’s tuneless singing. They had agreed to walk across the park and get some fresh air after leaving the club rather than sending a messenger to summon the cab to the door of Brook’s. All concerns about Percy had been temporarily forgotten in good food, drink, and company.
Lord Wycliff squinted at Edmund with drunken dignity.
“You don’t like my song!” he accused, stumbling along Carlton Gardens slightly ahead of Edmund. “Very well. But it’s a fine song. Just wait until I get to the verse about when she’s at her bath… Howzit go again?”
Lord Wycliff took a breath before continuing.
“So black her hair, so blue her eye, so pink her satin cheek,
So round her breast and fine her flank, her lovers cannot speak.”
“Hush Jacob!” Edmund urged, still choking back his laughter. “You will never be invited to another hostess’s musical soirée if anyone hears you.”
“It’s a fine song!” his friend protested again. “Or are you taking issue with my voice?” He paused now to negotiate the stone steps down to The Mall. “I’m told… I have… a fine baritone.”
“I’m sure you do, but not after we’ve split an entire bottle of cognac and all the wine we had with dinner. You sound like a half-strangled cockerel!”
“Charming. If you’d drunk more, then I would have drunk less, wouldn’t I? You’re far too responsible. So, all your fault anyway. Did I have a carriage?” the Marquess suddenly asked, looking around him in confusion. “I thought I might do.”
“My carriage is waiting on the other side of St. James’ Park. I’ll drop you home if you want.”
“No need. No need. I’m going to Chelsea to find the fair Rosie.”
“Do you even know where she lives, Jacob?”
“I know where she works which is just as good. She’s up at all hours being painted by that artist fellow. Rosie is even more beautiful than the song…”
“In that case, I’ll drop you on the Strand and you can pick up a Hackney carriage.”
“Ah, fair Rosie. Someone should write a song about her beauty…” Jacob sighed, leaning on Edmund’s arm as they crossed The Mall.
“Best leave Rosie’s posterity to the painters, I think,” Edmund advised and started laughing again at Jacob’s offended expression.
* * *
The next morning, Edmund awoke rather muzzily to the sound of raised voices outside his bedroom door. He didn’t know exactly what time he’d stumbled back into his family’s London house near Regent’s Park, but family and staff were all long in bed, and he’d used his latch key to get in.
On reflection, it must have been after midnight. So, perhaps he had been home by one o’clock in the morning.
It was therefore probably the after-effects of cognac rather than the lack of sleep that made it sound as though he had ten sisters rather than two arguing in the passageway a few feet from his bed.
“Sophia! Don’t snatch it like that.”
“It’s wrong to open someone else’s letters, Beatrice. You know that very well, and I shall tell Mother.”
“I was going to read it to him. He’s still in bed.”
“Oh run away and play, Beatrice. I’m sure that if it’s anything exciting, Edmund will tell you at luncheon.”
“I’m nearly eighteen, Sophia…”
Edmund opened the door in his nightshirt, just as his mother rounded the nearby stairwell, coming to investigate the noise.
“Girls! What on earth is all this squealing and shouting about? Look, you’ve woken Edmund too, although it’s past time for it and he has missed breakfast.”
Taking advantage of his mother’s interruption, Edmund plucked the half-opened letter from Sophia’s hand and immediately recognized Percy’s rather scruffy handwriting on the envelope.