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Authors: Susan Johnson
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setting over the river in a spectacularly brilliant crimson, and startled, he looked around as though waking from a dream.
Understanding a degree of sanity and good judgment was called for, he found a hackney cab, gave directions for his London house, and studiously avoided thinking of the blond jezebel in the black lace gown. Intent on supplanting images of the delectable Miss Leslie with more available females, he arrived home, quickly bathed and dressed, and set out for an evening at Carlton House, where the Prince of Wales's set could always be counted on for unbridled revelry.
Dinner was informal, with the usual male coterie of the Prince's engaged in outdrinking each other. Mrs. Fitzherbert was in Brighton, so the few women present were of questionable social status, a fact Dermott welcomed in his present churlish state. 2 As the evening progressed, the guests moved into the music room, where they were joined by ladies who were there to entertain them with their musical abilities along with other more titillating delights. And by midnight a general state of inebriated carouse was well under way. While the Prince of Wales swore his devotion to Mrs. Fitzherbert, he was easily dissuaded from the path of faithfulness if she was absent, and tonight a dancer from the corps de ballet was piquing his interest. She not only danced but sang extremely well, charming the Prince, who delighted in music of all kinds and singing in particular.
The party had just finished a rousing second chorus of a drinking song when the Prince cast a glance at Dermott, who alone was without female company, and cheerfully called out, "No cunt tonight, Dermott? Should I send for the doctor?"
"I'm on a rest cure."
"Venus's revenge got you?"
Dermott shook his head as he lay sprawled on a silk-covered chaise with peculiar crocodile feet. "I've found religion," he drawled, his voice rich with liquor.
"Oh, ho! And maybe I've a notion to take back my wife," the Prince hooted. 3 "Although it might be a tad crowded in bed with all her lovers."
A roar of drunken laughter greeted his statement.
"Ain't like you, Bathurst, that's all." Beau Brummell spoke into the lessening guffaws and chuckles in the same fastidious tone with which he dressed, his cool-eyed gaze keen despite a night of drinking. 4
"But then, variety is the spice of life," Dermott murmured, his dark eyes clear and challenging. "Any argument there?"
"Acquit me, Bathurst," Brummell casually disclaimed. "You know how I dislike intense physical activity early in the morning, not to mention the risk of bloodying my linen."
The sudden silence that had fallen at Dermott's quiet query evaporated in a communal sigh of relief.
"There, there," the Prince interjected. "What we all need is another bottle." Snapping his fingers brought a number of footmen on the run, and the noisy carouse resumed.
But everyone took note of Dermott's departure shortly after, although no one dared question his motive when he rose from his chaise and exited the room.
"He's blue-deviled," the Marquis of Jervis remarked as the door closed on the earl's back.
"Must be a woman."
"Not with Bathurst. He don't care for any of 'em enough."
"Did he losh a race today?"
"No races today, Wiggy," a young baronet interjected. "You're too drunk to remember."
"Naw drunk," the Duke of Marshfield's heir slurred.
"Maybe he's bored," Brummell noted, his sobriety conspicuous in the sea of drunkenness.
"Never saw Bathurst bored with cunt before."
A general nodding of heads greeted the remark.
"A pony says he's hors de combat." A young man winked.
"Never happened before. I'll raise you a pony against it."
The state of Dermott's health continued in heated debate until the betting included most everyone in the room, for or against, a coin toss deciding who would talk to his doctor in the morning. No one considered asking Bathurst personally.
Not in his current ill temper.
When the earl found himself at Molly's several hours
Understanding a degree of sanity and good judgment was called for, he found a hackney cab, gave directions for his London house, and studiously avoided thinking of the blond jezebel in the black lace gown. Intent on supplanting images of the delectable Miss Leslie with more available females, he arrived home, quickly bathed and dressed, and set out for an evening at Carlton House, where the Prince of Wales's set could always be counted on for unbridled revelry.
Dinner was informal, with the usual male coterie of the Prince's engaged in outdrinking each other. Mrs. Fitzherbert was in Brighton, so the few women present were of questionable social status, a fact Dermott welcomed in his present churlish state. 2 As the evening progressed, the guests moved into the music room, where they were joined by ladies who were there to entertain them with their musical abilities along with other more titillating delights. And by midnight a general state of inebriated carouse was well under way. While the Prince of Wales swore his devotion to Mrs. Fitzherbert, he was easily dissuaded from the path of faithfulness if she was absent, and tonight a dancer from the corps de ballet was piquing his interest. She not only danced but sang extremely well, charming the Prince, who delighted in music of all kinds and singing in particular.
The party had just finished a rousing second chorus of a drinking song when the Prince cast a glance at Dermott, who alone was without female company, and cheerfully called out, "No cunt tonight, Dermott? Should I send for the doctor?"
"I'm on a rest cure."
"Venus's revenge got you?"
Dermott shook his head as he lay sprawled on a silk-covered chaise with peculiar crocodile feet. "I've found religion," he drawled, his voice rich with liquor.
"Oh, ho! And maybe I've a notion to take back my wife," the Prince hooted. 3 "Although it might be a tad crowded in bed with all her lovers."
A roar of drunken laughter greeted his statement.
"Ain't like you, Bathurst, that's all." Beau Brummell spoke into the lessening guffaws and chuckles in the same fastidious tone with which he dressed, his cool-eyed gaze keen despite a night of drinking. 4
"But then, variety is the spice of life," Dermott murmured, his dark eyes clear and challenging. "Any argument there?"
"Acquit me, Bathurst," Brummell casually disclaimed. "You know how I dislike intense physical activity early in the morning, not to mention the risk of bloodying my linen."
The sudden silence that had fallen at Dermott's quiet query evaporated in a communal sigh of relief.
"There, there," the Prince interjected. "What we all need is another bottle." Snapping his fingers brought a number of footmen on the run, and the noisy carouse resumed.
But everyone took note of Dermott's departure shortly after, although no one dared question his motive when he rose from his chaise and exited the room.
"He's blue-deviled," the Marquis of Jervis remarked as the door closed on the earl's back.
"Must be a woman."
"Not with Bathurst. He don't care for any of 'em enough."
"Did he losh a race today?"
"No races today, Wiggy," a young baronet interjected. "You're too drunk to remember."
"Naw drunk," the Duke of Marshfield's heir slurred.
"Maybe he's bored," Brummell noted, his sobriety conspicuous in the sea of drunkenness.
"Never saw Bathurst bored with cunt before."
A general nodding of heads greeted the remark.
"A pony says he's hors de combat." A young man winked.
"Never happened before. I'll raise you a pony against it."
The state of Dermott's health continued in heated debate until the betting included most everyone in the room, for or against, a coin toss deciding who would talk to his doctor in the morning. No one considered asking Bathurst personally.
Not in his current ill temper.
When the earl found himself at Molly's several hours
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