Not that he particularly cared if his publisher had apoplexy. He could always find another publisher. But he did like Dithers. They had an understanding.
A profitable understanding.
Apoplexy would be…inconvenient.
Especially right now.
Dithers was on the hunt for a new illustrator to bring the works of Lord Hedon, Edward’s nom de plume, to life. Finding a talented hand—one who was willing to create the kinds of drawings Edward’s illicit manuscripts demanded—was proving to be a challenge.
What a pity Richard Mabry had gotten it into his head to race along Rotten Row stinking drunk. In the dark. It was a lucky thing he hadn’t maimed his cattle. As it was, he’d only broken his neck.
Leaving Edward at a loss for inspiration.
Dickie had always provided the drawings upon which Edward’s naughty stories were based. Dickie provided the pictures, Edward provided the words. It had been a perfect partnership.
But now Edward struggled with—
He winced as a bellow shattered his calm, obliterating the incessant ticktock of the clock on the mantel. A responding warble rattled the window pane, followed by the clash of steel. Or something like it.
Apparently, there was a battle underway in the garden.
He set down his useless quill, strode to the window and peered out. Yes. Two of his cousins were dueling with swords—not real swords, thank God. Edward had had Transom hide all the weapons weeks ago after discovering a Chippendale in the Blue Salon shattered to smithereens by a decorative mace. At least, he’d assumed it was a decorative mace. It had been hanging on the wall in the billiard room his entire life.
Evidently it was a real mace.
And now Dennis and Sean—or was it Hamish and Taylor? He could never remember who was who—were embroiled in a fierce skirmish with swordlike metal spikes. Where they had come from, he had no clue. They looked vaguely familiar, with a distinctive fleur de lis on the end of each—
Realization, and horror, washed through him. Good God. Those were spears from the metal fence surrounding the family crypt. Somehow they’d pried them loose and were now bashing each other with them.
“Transom!” he bellowed as he rushed into the hall. And promptly tripped. He would have fallen flat on his face if Transom hadn’t caught him.
Together, they glared at a small boy crouched by the doorjamb with a hammer in his hand and a mischievous grin on his face. For he’d just finished nailing a wire across the threshold.
Edward gaped. He feared his eyes were quite wild. Why on earth would anyone—
“You called, my lord?”
“What… Why… Who…” Dukes should not sputter. But again, he struggled for a phrase. He gave up and snarled, “Where the hell is Hortense?” His aunt was supposed to be managing this. She had promised to manage this.
“Shopping, my lord.”
“Shopping! Why the hell is she not here, corralling these hellions?” What was the point of having the old bat living beneath his roof if she couldn’t provide some miniscule service? Such as exorcising demons?
The boy with the hammer took his chances and scampered off into the bowels of the house. Maniacal laughter trailed in his wake.
Transom cleared his throat. “I believe she went shopping to escape these hellions, my lord.”
“Christ.” Edward raked his fingers through his hair. He caught a glimpse of himself in the pier glass and winced. His hair stood straight up on end. There were bags beneath his eyes—he hadn’t slept well…there had been clumps of dirt in his sheets—and his face looked as sour as a fishwife sucking on a lemon. “I need some fresh air.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“While I’m gone, see if you can draw up a battle plan, will you?”
“My lord?”
“You were in the Horse Guards, weren’t you? You fought in the war.”
“As you know, my lord.” It was, after all, how they’d met. Edward had been a delusional idiot on a glorious mission and Transom had saved his arse. A number of times.
“Well, my man.” He clapped his butler on the shoulder. “This is war.”
And by God, he was going to win.
Edward skirted the mêlée in the garden and made his way to the far end of the estate, where there was nothing but flowers and trees and a placid little pond. Nothing to attract diminutive fiends bent on mischief. He would sit in the folly until his temperature returned to normal.
Perhaps until spring.
Dear God. He’d had no idea having the Wyeths of Perth take over his house would be such a nightmare. If he had suspected as much, he would have turned them away at the start. They would probably have crawled in under the door. Through the cracks in the flue. Vermin had a way of finding entrance.