Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel Read Free Page B

fiercely.
    He held out his glass to be refilled.
    Peyton gave him a scoundrel’s grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
    They drank until dawn, at which point they called for their curricles and raced quite irresponsibly half the distance to London. Peyton won, but Tacitus vowed to beat him the next time.
    He did indeed win the next time, and many times after that. Like the whiskey, racing dulled the pain. Peyton, who had lost two adored siblings some years earlier, assured him that he had not truly grieved until he’d done something very stupid, so why not keep on grieving and have some fun? Tacitus did not mention that he had in fact done something very stupid, which had only compounded the grief. But he went along with his friend’s plan anyway.
    When drunken carriage racing grew tiresome, Peyton took him to several disreputable hells and some very fine clubs too, and to any number of society fetes. At these venues they drank more and occasionally gamed, and Peyton flirted with every female he encountered, from common molls to the crusty old Duchess of Hammershire. He was a dashing fellow, scion of one of the finest, oldest families in Britain, and charming. The ladies loved him.
    They seemed to like Tacitus too. It wasn’t to be wondered at. He was a marquess and plump in the pockets. And Dare Castle wasn’t anything to sniff at.
    “Don’t be an idiot, Tass. It’s not only the trappings that attract them,” Peyton said over tankards of ale at a pub they particularly liked. It reminded Tacitus of the taproom at the inn at the village of Dashbourne where he had treated the Chance siblings to lunch for a month. He had not mentioned that to Peyton of course, or even acknowledged it to himself except when he was very drunk and muttering unintelligibly into his cup. Like he was at present.
    “M’not an idiot.” He was slurring now. Best to head home soon. Too much ale spoiled … well … everything really.
    “Clara,” Peyton called to the barmaid. “Come over here. Now there’s a good girl.”
    The barmaid planted her behind on Peyton’s knee and gave his chest a vigorous rub with the palm of her hand.
    “You be wantin’ a bit o’ Clara tonight, milord?”
    Peyton smiled. “Actually I’ve got a question for you.”
    “It’s a game you’re playing, then?” She gave his chest another rub. “I like games.”
    “Look at my friend Dare here. What do you think of him?”
    She gave Tacitus the sort of perusal he’d gotten a lot of since he’d been going about town with the Viscount Mallory.
    “I think I could lick him like a spoon that’s been in the pudding, milord,” Clara said, and dragged her tongue across her lips as though to demonstrate.
    Peyton chuckled. “If he didn’t have a penny to his name, or a title, or those fine clothes and gold signet ring, would you still lick him like a spoon?”
    “Every day of the week and twice on Sundays,” Clara replied with a wink at Tacitus.
    Tacitus stood. He bowed. “Thank you, Miss …?”
    “Clara, sweetness. But if you’ve a mind to come on upstairs for a tumble, you can call me anything you like.” She jumped off Peyton’s lap and moved to Tacitus, her hand outstretched, presumably for the chest rub she intended to give him.
    He backed away. “I appreciate the offer, Clara. But I’ve got to be going.” His head reeled. His mouth was a cavern of hopelessness. And he had to walk off his erection before he got home and descended into dreams of a girl he should by now have entirely forgotten.
    Peyton followed him to his feet. “All right, my lord,” he drawled. “I’ve got your back.”
    As it turned out, Peyton was obliged to make good on that statement. Two blocks from the pub they encountered a lady of delicate years and her aged grandmother in the midst of cutpurses. Tacitus and Peyton beat the thieves to the ground. In the fray, Tacitus caught a knife’s blade upon his jaw. But in the end they bested the blackguards entirely.
    The