sure, save he could barely look at the stout entryway without gagging.
Damn it! He swallowed another gulp of sack. If it weren’t for his companion, he’d tolerate the loss of face and call the whole thing off.
Alastair’s gaze swept towards the gathering shadows before the temple door where his friend stood. Jude Leveson, the perfect cipher for all that was missing in his soul.
Jude the jubilant. Jude the fair. Jude the man he couldn’t bear to be around and couldn’t stand to be apart from.
Alastair’s lip curled—there was no easy escape from this nightmare. He’d simply have to stand tall and face both demons fully armed. He glanced around for the decanter he’d left behind in the parlour, seeking a refill, for tonight, alcohol would have to serve in place of a pistol. He didn’t trust himself with the latter, having nearly shot himself in the foot the previous week.
“Whatever’s the hold up, Alastair?” Jude leaned casually against the stout, iron-pinned door, a picnic hamper held within his hands. He raised one knee and balanced the hamper upon it while he searched in his waistcoat pocket for the key. “It’s all codswallop, you realise, this nonsense about ghosts. There are no real ghosts. It’s just a bunch of tales told to you as children in order to keep you out of this derelict mausoleum. So a little less gloom please, and maybe we’ll make merry hell of this wager.”
“Perhaps.”
With a sharp click that resembled a rifle shot, the lock released. Jude gave the ring handle a good twist and the door swung inwards on wailing hinges, dislodging a grey mantel of cobwebs. “Creepy,” he chuckled, dusting away the silky strands. “I say, Alastair, this place does have beds, doesn’t it? Two blankets won’t provide much comfort, and the only scrambling about on the floor I favour is Greek wrestling.”
Beds. There were, unfortunately, beds. There wouldn’t be any wrestling. Alastair clapped his companion across the back and ushered him into the stone folly. “That’s what the six bottles of elderberry wine are for. Any beds in here are probably riddled with damp and fleas.”
“If that’s what the wine’s for, what’s the brandy for?”
Alastair kicked the door closed. “Desperate times.” This moment being one of them.
They were in. Unease snaked through his innards as he locked the door and placed the key in his pocket.. Bending, he slipped the hip flask from the top of his Hessian boot and attempted to soothe his nerves with a long swig, before stowing it back betwixt stocking and leather. The alcohol merely excited the snake in his guts. “Shall we survey our domain?” He gestured towards the central chamber. He’d maintain a façade of calm if it killed him.
“A toast first.” Jude drew a bottle from the hamper and raised it high. “To foolish wagers, may we win them and reap the luscious rewards.” He applied his teeth to the cork, and chucked it into a shadowy corner, leaving Alastair with the strange urge to fetch.
Instead, he glanced at his pocket watch. Eight o’clock. Twelve hours to go. It wasn’t as if he were even to gain anything from this little endeavour beyond some minimal respect. He never wagered more than sixpence against a woman.
“So, the purpose of this place? Favourite trysting spot, I’m guessing,” said Jude.
Alastair shook his head. “There isn’t a purpose to it. My great grandfather simply had a fondness for oddities. There are several follies dotted about the estate.”
“I still say he entertained here.”
“I doubt it. His eccentricity ran to the ladies in addition to architecture. He preferred to keep them at a distance. Said one had cost him his leg in Lauffeld, and he wasn’t risking the other. We should probably be grateful Charlotte suggested a night here, and not in the leg’s mausoleum. He brought it back to England and gave it its own burial.”
“It’s cold enough in here to be a mausoleum.” Jude rubbed some
Damn it! He swallowed another gulp of sack. If it weren’t for his companion, he’d tolerate the loss of face and call the whole thing off.
Alastair’s gaze swept towards the gathering shadows before the temple door where his friend stood. Jude Leveson, the perfect cipher for all that was missing in his soul.
Jude the jubilant. Jude the fair. Jude the man he couldn’t bear to be around and couldn’t stand to be apart from.
Alastair’s lip curled—there was no easy escape from this nightmare. He’d simply have to stand tall and face both demons fully armed. He glanced around for the decanter he’d left behind in the parlour, seeking a refill, for tonight, alcohol would have to serve in place of a pistol. He didn’t trust himself with the latter, having nearly shot himself in the foot the previous week.
“Whatever’s the hold up, Alastair?” Jude leaned casually against the stout, iron-pinned door, a picnic hamper held within his hands. He raised one knee and balanced the hamper upon it while he searched in his waistcoat pocket for the key. “It’s all codswallop, you realise, this nonsense about ghosts. There are no real ghosts. It’s just a bunch of tales told to you as children in order to keep you out of this derelict mausoleum. So a little less gloom please, and maybe we’ll make merry hell of this wager.”
“Perhaps.”
With a sharp click that resembled a rifle shot, the lock released. Jude gave the ring handle a good twist and the door swung inwards on wailing hinges, dislodging a grey mantel of cobwebs. “Creepy,” he chuckled, dusting away the silky strands. “I say, Alastair, this place does have beds, doesn’t it? Two blankets won’t provide much comfort, and the only scrambling about on the floor I favour is Greek wrestling.”
Beds. There were, unfortunately, beds. There wouldn’t be any wrestling. Alastair clapped his companion across the back and ushered him into the stone folly. “That’s what the six bottles of elderberry wine are for. Any beds in here are probably riddled with damp and fleas.”
“If that’s what the wine’s for, what’s the brandy for?”
Alastair kicked the door closed. “Desperate times.” This moment being one of them.
They were in. Unease snaked through his innards as he locked the door and placed the key in his pocket.. Bending, he slipped the hip flask from the top of his Hessian boot and attempted to soothe his nerves with a long swig, before stowing it back betwixt stocking and leather. The alcohol merely excited the snake in his guts. “Shall we survey our domain?” He gestured towards the central chamber. He’d maintain a façade of calm if it killed him.
“A toast first.” Jude drew a bottle from the hamper and raised it high. “To foolish wagers, may we win them and reap the luscious rewards.” He applied his teeth to the cork, and chucked it into a shadowy corner, leaving Alastair with the strange urge to fetch.
Instead, he glanced at his pocket watch. Eight o’clock. Twelve hours to go. It wasn’t as if he were even to gain anything from this little endeavour beyond some minimal respect. He never wagered more than sixpence against a woman.
“So, the purpose of this place? Favourite trysting spot, I’m guessing,” said Jude.
Alastair shook his head. “There isn’t a purpose to it. My great grandfather simply had a fondness for oddities. There are several follies dotted about the estate.”
“I still say he entertained here.”
“I doubt it. His eccentricity ran to the ladies in addition to architecture. He preferred to keep them at a distance. Said one had cost him his leg in Lauffeld, and he wasn’t risking the other. We should probably be grateful Charlotte suggested a night here, and not in the leg’s mausoleum. He brought it back to England and gave it its own burial.”
“It’s cold enough in here to be a mausoleum.” Jude rubbed some
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