Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter 11

Late that evening

White's Club on St. James' Street

Time: Unknown

Thorne couldn't remember how long he had been in White's. The lights were dim in the far corner where he sat, his leg kicked out before him, and the other crossed over his knee, the leg wobbling at a fast pace and setting  the fancy tassels adorning the top of his boots to shaking.

Most men were already knee deep in their cups, but none quite as sotted as Thorne himself he was sure. He reeked of bourbon from when he had tilted his cup too far to his mouth and had spilt the rank liquor down his waistcoat and dribbled it upon his chin. Like a lad. No doubt in the morning with his mind returned and the sun's light burning his retinas, Thorne would be quite put out, indeed.

Thorne did so adore this waistcoat.

Instead, he  wiped the droplets away haphazardly that glinted across the turquoise fabric before bringing another shot of liquor to his lips and casting it back. That was when the first whispers of tonight's debacle met his ears.

Pouring another glass full with the sparkling amber liquid, Thorne grumbled beneath his breath. It was good to know that even this late in the evening, surrounded by gentlemen clucking about like mother hens, that the gossip wheel still churned so effectively in London. It was deuced convenient that it kept all abreast of its happenings.

Sarcasm, thy name is Thorne.

He tipped back his glass, hoping the sloshing noise of life-giving liquor would bring back the pall of apathy that had entombed him. No such luck, as Sir Brambledon's loud booming voice broke over the crowd. It wasn't long before Thorne saw red.

Because it wasn't the welfare of the lady that was spoken of, but the name of the Duke as her savior.

The Duke-of-damned-Burkeley!

Suddenly, drowning his sorrows in finger after finger of bourbon, did nothing but make his temper spark. Any second now, Thorne could see it being released into the crowd of males, its flames smothering their chortling faces.  

"It's only a matter of time before the duke claims the tart. All the better to keep an eye on the troublesome gel-"

"-but for my part, I can't see the statue would have done much damage than already done to the unfortunate lady. The duke is much more blind to such things than I-"

"I bet the duke gave her a good one-fer in upsettin' 'is lofty fam'ly name, I'm sure-"

Thorne's chair scraped back with his anger at the peacocks surrounding him. He growled his excuses as he not-so-purposely - Sarcasm, thy name is Thorne! - ran into their seated bodies and spilt the rest of his contents on various parts of their ensembles.

"What the devil, Thorne!" Sir Brambledon said, jumping out of his seat as Thorne didn't bother tripping or making the accident look anything more than what it was. Thorne had stood behind the perpetrator's chair, picked up his drink, and poured it straight upon his lap. "What was that for?"

Thorne leaned in. "Just trying to cool off your ardor, dear fellow. I would think you would be most happy that the lady's brother, Lord Greyson, wasn't the one to hear the foul horseshite coming from your mouth."

The man paled, clearing his throat, and making an undue effort to dampen the liquid upon his trousers. "N-n-now, it was all in good f-fun, Thorne..."

"So, if I relate the story to Claymore, he would laugh then?" The man's face paled even further. Thorne patted his shoulder. "I didn't think so, dear friend. I will consider the matter."