“Are you in love with Amanda, Colonel?” Milagros’s eyes peered at him from above his brandy glass. That second drink had given him a slightly more courageous tongue.
“Goddamn you to hell! Of all the impertinent, rude questions! Listen to me, Milagros, a man would have to have lost all common sense to get involved with a woman in possession of that sort of temper! She has no conception of restraint, does she?”
“Normally I would defend her with my very last breath. However, no, she does not. But that did not answer my question, did it? Do you love her?”
“Ha!” Fitzwilliam snorted his derision. “You must be insane! She is a good deal too unpredictable for my tastes. No, no, no, that’s too kind of an assessment. Actually, I suspect she is mentally unstable. Yes. That’s a more accurate description of her true personality. She possesses serious mental impairments.”
“But do you love her?”
“Well, yes, dammit! Of course I love her, you idiot! Do you think I’d be here making a bloody fool of myself for any other reason? Now, I want to know from you what is going on, because I cannot get a sensible word from her mouth. Are you bedding her? Have you made her an honorable offer?”
“You English aristocrats are so amoral that you are unable to entertain a thought above your waist.” Anthony huffed. “It is extremely unromantic.”
Fitzwilliam slowly turned his head, and then with a menacing look, he leaned on the table, resting his weight on his fists.
“I always make the mistake of saying exactly what I am thinking at the moment. Very unfortunate…” Anthony’s voice shook as it rambled on into silence. He passed a hand over his eyes. “You realize that if you kill me, someone will figure it out. I bleed profusely.”
“One last time, Milagros. Are you and she betrothed? I have been making inquiries. Those who know of you believe you are secretly involved with someone, although no one seems to know whom. Was Amanda married when you began this affair? Is that it, Milagros? Is she the reason none of the ton ’s mamas can lure you into an alliance? Is it she who has been your secret lover?” Fitzwilliam’s voice was now barely above a whisper.
“ Dios mio.” Anthony ran his fingers through his hair. “You are going to make me say this out loud, aren’t you?” Anthony’s voice quivered, and his stomach roiled, but Fitzwilliam continued to glare, his fury barely under control. He finally had enough.
“Answer me, damn you!!”
Anthony leaned forward, all the color drained from his face. “Please understand, Colonel, that what I tell you now could have me imprisoned or worse.”
Startled, Fitzwilliam eyed him suspiciously. “What is going on here, Milagros?” He had not anticipated this line of argument.
Anthony angrily began muttering something in Spanish about Amanda, his hands poking wildly at certain emphatic declarations, then mopped at perspiration running down the back of his neck.
Fitzwilliam was listening intently, trying to grasp a word from the too-rapid Spanish, when he suddenly heard a sneeze from the hallway. He stiffened and spun toward the closed door. “Is she here?” He spoke low, but his mouth had set into a cruel, clenched line.
Anthony’s head shot up quickly as he too turned toward the hallway. Alarmed and tense, he began to rise.
“Colonel, listen to me! You are under the impression, I believe, that you and I are in some sort of competition for the affections of Amanda, are you not?” Fitzwilliam said nothing but continued to glower. “ That is your mistake. You see, in actuality, it would be Amanda and I…” Glancing at the door, Anthony swallowed hard and lowered his voice. He coughed and cleared his throat. “It was Amanda and I in a competition for you.”
Fitzwilliam heard a muffled male voice spit out the words “bloody hell” from the corridor, followed by running footsteps, then a door slamming. Anthony groaned and started toward the doorway. “Edmund, wait!” he called just before another door somewhere deep in the house slammed shut. Within moments, a carriage raced from the back of the house and onto the street.
Fitzwilliam and Anthony stared at the closed door for several minutes, then both turned to watch through the French doors as the carriage careened wildly down the driveway. Anthony dropped into the chair, his head falling backward onto the headrest.
“Merde!” he whispered miserably.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes were huge as saucers as he turned slowly in stunned silence. “Beg pardon?” he managed finally to say.
Chapter 12
Anthony’s second nightly delight after his warmed brandy—the superb meal that his chef had prepared with such care—was quickly relegated to the trash. It was now near midnight, and the two men sat silently before the fireplace, each wallowing in his own lovelorn misery. Emptied bottles of wine were scattered amidst the tobacco pouches and cheroot ashes.
“Why doesn’t she want me, Milagros?” Fitzwilliam was slumped far down in his chair, his shirt disheveled and his cravat loose around his neck. He tried to rub the burning from his red-rimmed eyes. “Bah! That’s an unfair question. I am certain this is as much a mystery to you as it is to me, because, obviously, I’m a perfectly pleasant fellow. The ladies adore me, usually.”
“What?” Milagros turned a bleary eye to his companion. The poor doctor did not look like the same fine fellow who had begun the evening with such anticipation. Liquor had dimmed his glamorous eyes, his cravat was now askew, his hair a bit tousled, and he sat loose-limbed, his shirtsleeves unlinked and turned back. Already a heavy, dark beard was beginning to appear on his face. All in all, it was the most slovenly Dr. Milagros had looked in nearly four years. He had been staring intently at the end of his cigarillo, turning the burning cylinder slowly between his fingers. “What are you blathering about now?”
“My God, what a pathetic pair we make.” Fitzwilliam shook an empty bottle, then another, finally finding one half full. Anthony automatically held out his glass. “Listen, Jose, I want you to know that your secret is safe with me. I apologize to you for forcing the issue, pushing you to tell me the truth. Shouldn’t have pushed, should have minded my own business. But then I would have needed to kill you. However, I imagine I did you a favor, actually. It felt good to admit everything out loud, what? A load off, as they say.”
After slanting him an evil look, Milagros flicked his ashes at him. “No, Dickie, it did not feel good. It felt like shit, which is how I now feel. But that is fine. I imagine that I will survive this, no thanks to you.”
“No one will learn of your deep, dark secret from my mouth. I swear on my brother’s life that I will go to my grave with this knowledge.” A slightly inebriated Fitzwilliam poised one finger before his mouth and emitted a soft “sshh.”
“Well, if you really feel so badly about this I would appreciate your doing exactly that as soon as possible—go to your grave, that is, Ricardo. It will save me years of anxiety.”
“Nonsense, Manuel. My lips are sealed. I have been trusted with worse secrets about many others, much, much worse, ghastly secrets, people you know well, famous people, people of the Empire. Remind me to regale you with them someday, always popular fare at parties. You will be astounded. It will curl your hair.”
Anthony groaned, and Fitzwilliam chuckled.
“Seriously, Anthony, I do apologize. Did you care for this person very much? I mean, will you be able to explain to him what happened?”