Tarporley sank down onto the bed. “What a day! I could use a tot of brandy.”
Giff had just shrugged off his coat for the second time. “An excellent thought.” He dug into the pocket of his coat and brought out his flask, handing it across. “Here, my friend. Well-deserved too.”
The young man took it, but hesitated. “What about you?”
“You first.”
Rhoades, who had also removed his coat, came up to them, grinning, a similar silver receptacle in his hand. “Great minds, Giffard.” He unscrewed the cap and raised the flask. “To a happy outcome!”
Giff watched him drink, his mind returning to his besetting problem. Happy? If truth be told, neither one nor the other of the two possibilities could be said to be entirely happy.
Rhoades smacked his lips with satisfaction. “That’s better. A wash and a meal and I’ll be as good as new.”
He offered the flask to Giff, who held up a hand. “Keep it. I’ll take a sip of my own when Tarporley is done. Besides, I dare say the butler — Dunford? Yes, Dunford — will supply us with suitable wine.”
Tarporley handed over the flask with a word of thanks. “What do you mean to say to your cousin, Giffard?”
“I’m in two minds. I can’t decide if I want to remain in the country or not.”
“But you intend to establish your rightful claim, I hope?”
“That might take years of wrangling.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I’m not a patient man, I’m afraid.”
Rhoades laughed out, stripping the cravat from his neck. “I think we’ve both understood that.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat, an odd look in his eye as he flicked a glance at Giff. “Mayhap Miss Burloyne may teach you to be a little less ready to leap before you look.”
Warmth crept into Giff’s cheeks, and he eyed the man with a resurgence of suspicion. “You can say that? You’ve an interest there yourself!”
The captain threw aside his waistcoat and looked up, astonishment in his face. “I? Have you run mad, Giffard?”
“I’ve seen you seizing chances, hobnobbing with the wench.”
“Yes, when I had to question her. For the lord’s sake, man! What are you, an Othello? Besides, anyone can see she’s head over heels for you.”
A cascade of warmth swept through Giff. Hope soared. “You think so?”
“I had the same notion,” came from Tarporley, now also divesting himself of some of his clothes.
There was time for no more, for a knock at the chamber door produced the second maid, armed with a jug, and a footman, bearing another along with towels and other personal accoutrements.
“I’ll fetch another basin, sirs,” said the maid, setting down her jug and bobbing a curtsey.
“Mrs Joyce said as I’d to stay and help, sirs.” The footman brandished a clothes brush and a couple of combs.
Rhoades waved the footman towards the bed. “Put them down. Is there a slop bucket?”
The man indicated the deep bucket under the washstand and set down his burdens on the bed, holding a towel ready for Rhoades who was already splashing water into the basin set into the wash stand.
“When you’re ready, sirs, I’ve to show you to the breakfast parlour.”
The presence of the footman precluded any conversation beyond that pertinent to washing of hands and faces, brushing of coats and hair and retying of cravats.
Giff found his thoughts returning to Piers and the revolving questions in his head. A nuisance the discussion with his cousin must be postponed. Presumably he would find it near impossible to accost him again until the doctor had been.
The meal, of roast beef and ham pie, accompanied by buttered artichokes and French beans, followed by a bath pudding, a plate of fresh fruits and another of gingerbread, raised Giff’s spirits a trifle, but he found it hard to join in with Rhoades and Tarporley, who had fallen into jocular mood and were exchanging the kind of stories confined within a male arena as they passed around the wine bottle.
By the time he was at last able to secure an opportunity to go to Piers’s chamber, the hour was advanced and it began to look as if a return to Weymouth would be out of count. Anxious to talk to Delia, Giff cursed at the delay. But at last, Mrs Joyce pronounced the master enough rested to be able to have a visitor.
In yet another panelled apartment, Piers was sitting in state in a massive four-poster, propped against pillows, his injured arm reposing in a sling.