Never Fall for Your Fiancee

Diana’s eyes swept the length of her, taking in the disheveled hair, the sand stains on her skirt, and her kiss-swollen lips, then glared. “Oh, we shall discuss all that at length later, dear Sister, let me assure you, but right now we have a much bigger problem on our hands. Come!”

With that she strode off, expecting them to follow. Diana took the servants’ staircase behind the kitchen rather than enter the family part of the house, marching directly to Lucretia’s door. She tapped it and whispered against the wood. “It’s me.”

They heard a key turn in the lock, then came face-to-face with a wide-eyed, harried Vee when it opened. “Oh, thank goodness! I’m at my wits’ end. Thankfully she’s sleeping again … for the moment, at least…” The youngest Merriwell stepped aside while Diana herded them all into the darkened room before locking the door again.

As his eyes adjusted, Hugh began to make out a Lucretia-shaped lump on the mattress. There was an odd smell in the air. A bit like spirits mixed with cheap perfume. “What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?”

“She’s drunk!”

Diana marched to the nightstand and turned up the lamp, and the full extent of the problem was shown in stark relief. Next to the lamp was an empty decanter. He recognized it as the one from the library. Another similarly drained wine bottle lay on its side, uncorked on the floor. A third was cradled in Lucretia’s pudgy arms as she snored loudly.

“She pleaded another headache this afternoon before we went to the Ladies’ Society and retired to her room. I didn’t check on her, because Mr. Peabody suggested a ride, and by the time we came back she was in a right old state. Fortunately, she had dragged herself up here, so your family haven’t collided with her yet—but she’s been singing so enthusiastically it’s only a matter of time before they do. Our dear, grieving, alcohol-averse mother has a substantial pair of lungs.”

Vee stood nervously wringing her hands. “I’ve been trying to sober her up, I even asked Payne to send up some coffee, but that was over an hour ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, at least she’s finally quiet. I didn’t think I could take any more Mozart.” Diana leaned over the actress’s prostrate body and attempted to slip the wine bottle from her grasp. That apparently had the power to rouse the woman from her deep slumber, and she hugged it tight, blinking out of one bloodshot eye in the harsh light.

“Turn the lamp off! Devil child!” Her hand flailed around searching for the bedcovers, and when it found none, hoisted her skirt up to cover her face, rewarding them all with the sight of her garishly striped stockings. The sort worn by thespians on the stage. “I am trying to sch-leep!”

“There’s no way she’ll be fit for dinner. While that is bound to raise your mother’s suspicions, it’s probably just as well she avoids the dining room, as I doubt she even knows her own name at the moment—let alone the one she’s supposed to have. But I have no idea how we are going to explain it without confessing she is too fond of the hard stuff.” Diana shot daggers at the lump in the bed. “Because I’ll bet that a few servants saw her wandering the halls as drunk as a sailor and they must have told Her Ladyship. Or if they haven’t yet, they soon will. Gossip like this is priceless.”

“Payne will deal with the servants.” Hugh turned to Vee. “Can you go find him and ask him what the blazes he thinks he is about not fetching that coffee!”

Vee didn’t need to be asked twice, utterly relieved to be able to escape the room. He couldn’t blame her. The final minutes of the ride home had been pure torture, and Hugh had had plans to hide in his bedchamber and lick his wounds in private until he didn’t have the overwhelming urge to rage at the heavens for cursing him with his father’s blood, or weep because she confessed she had a deep affection for him, too, but was determined to leave him despite his tentative olive branch. “I’ll think of something to tell my family and I’ll get Payne to find an easily bribed maid to stay with her.”

Hugh had no qualms about removing the wine bottle, prizing Lucretia’s fingers from the neck when she attempted to hold on for grim death. He was going to wring Giles’s blasted neck when he got hold of him. He should have known there was something peculiar about a brilliant actress from the London stage being readily available at the drop of a hat. The damn woman was a drunkard! An unreliable drunkard he was now well and truly stuck with.

“It’s probably best to let her sleep it off for a few hours and then once she is coherent, I shall have some stern words with her.” He strode to the window, opened it, and tipped the remaining wine from the bottle ceremoniously out of it. “Clearly I need to put the alcohol under lock and key!” He glared at Diana. “You shouldn’t have left her alone all day!”

It was an unfair barb, but he was at the end of his tether, furious at fate, his father’s bad blood, his suddenly yearning, needy heart, and Minerva’s quick acceptance of his logical reasoning without putting up a fight. If she’d have taken a chance on him to be a better man than his ancestors, then he damn well would have been! For her! Because she was worth the effort. Hell—he would lock himself away with her in Hampshire, away from all temptation that might fire his wayward Standish blood, dedicate himself to their relationship until he was certain he could continue in that vein.