Crawford pressed his lips together and assumed his martyred expression. His face had a naturally melancholy cast, thanks to a pair of eyes that turned down at the outer edges and a set of jowls that would put a purebred bloodhound to shame. When he was unhappy, as he was now, his whole face seemed to droop even further.
Even as he resented being made to feel like a brute, Gil found himself attempting to mollify the old man.
“I had planned to ride out to Hampstead Heath with Mr. Dudley this morning,” he offered. “But it looks as though there’s going to be another deluge, don't you think?”
Crawford generally leapt at the opportunity to voice an opinion. It was a measure of the depth of his wounded feelings that he merely sniffed.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, your lordship,” he replied with great dignity.
A second attempt at peacemaking was beyond Gil—at that moment, his stomach roiled violently. He sat down on the end of the bed, a cold sweat breaking out on his face.
Crawford smoothly moved away, disappearing into the dressing room for a few moments and returning with a glass filled with a foul-looking brew. He offered it to Gil wordlessly.
Grimacing, Gil accepted the glass and drank the contents down. It smelled like a stagnant pond and tasted like one too. For a few moments after, he felt sure he was going to vomit and leaned over to put his head between his knees, breathing deeply. Eventually, though, the awful churning passed, and he straightened again, feeling oddly better.
“Where did you get that stuff?” he said faintly, handing the glass back to his valet. “It's vile.”
“From Mr. Simpkins,” Crawford replied. “Apparently, Lord James got the recipe from one of his friends and swears it’s the very best cure for the aftermath of a night of drunkenness. I asked Simpkins to make an extra batch for your lordship this morning. Judging by the time you got home, I thought it likely you'd need it.”
Crawford’s voice held no hint of reproval, yet somehow Gil felt as though he’d been scolded. Bloody family retainers, he thought. He should’ve got rid of the old devil when his father died.
“You are nothing if not devoted, Crawford.”
In response to that, Crawford merely sniffed again, turning away to brush down Gil’s coat briskly before holding it out for Gil to slide his arms into.
Gil stood passively as Crawford buttoned and tweaked the garment until he was quite satisfied with the way it lay. Once the valet had moved away again, Gil went to the mirror and considered his reflection, smoothing down his hair with shaking fingers. He looked just as he normally did. A tall, well-dressed but not particularly fashionable gentleman. No one would have guessed that he’d only dragged himself home—from the lowest of gambling hells—at four o’clock this morning.
What had possessed him to stay out so late?
It had been the latest in a recent bout of late nights with James and James’s rakish circle of friends. And, as usual, he woke up feeling regretful and full of self-loathing.
He’d fallen into some bad habits lately. Since that night with Eve Adams, and especially in the last week or so, when he’d finally had to accept that he wasn’t going to be able to locate her. He wasn’t sure why he was reacting this way—he wasn't usually the sort of man to seek oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. But for some reason, that episode, or rather the aftermath of it, had thrown him.
He was going to have to pull himself together.
“Do you require anything else, my lord?”
Gil shook his head. “I had better show my face at breakfast.”
Crawford gave the barest of nods, still seemingly offended, and Gil left his bedchamber with a sigh.
He walked carefully down to the breakfast room, keeping very still so as not to jar his thumping head, standing still for one long, queasy moment before he pushed the door open.
James sat at the table, eating a huge plate of food with apparent relish. He’d probably drunk twice as much as Gil last night. It was galling to find him so jolly.
“Good morning,” James said cheerily, looking up. “How are you feeling this morning, old man?”
“Like hell,” Gil replied as he sank down into a chair. He declined the footman’s offer to bring him a plate, gesturing for coffee to be poured instead.
Having served the coffee, the footman bowed himself out of the room, closing the doors behind him.
“You should eat something,” James said, slicing a devilled kidney in two. “Trust me, no matter how certain you are that you won’t keep it down, you always feel better after eating.”
Gil swallowed against the wash of saliva under his tongue that warned of imminent vomiting.