A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(32)

The sound of loud voices could be heard echoing down the corridor from the entry hall.

I led the men from the study to join the others gathering to greet Rye’s older brother, Brady; his wife, Poppy; and their children. As usual, Brady’s voice was the loudest, followed closely by Morven’s. Sandwiched between these two bombastic personalities, I’d often thought it no surprise that Rye had turned out to be quiet and reserved. He’d probably never been able to get a word in edgewise. But it was clear they held each other in esteem all the same.

I watched as Brady clapped Rye heartily on the back, making him grin at his enthusiastic salutation. When he turned to greet Charlotte, rather than politely taking her hand, he swung her off the floor. For a moment, my dear friend appeared aghast, but then she began to giggle. A sight that brought a smile to my own face.

Poppy turned from Aunt Cait, shaking her head good-naturedly at her husband’s antics, and stepped forward to take my proffered hands. “He can’t help himself,” she declared in her gentle voice. “But you already know that.” Her dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “You’re probably next.”

For all of Poppy’s serene appearance and soft-spoken manners, I knew she possessed an impish streak to rival her husband’s. She was simply slyer in how she wielded it. Between the pair of them and Morven, I was doubtful that the remaining days until the wedding would pass quietly.

As if to illustrate this, Brady suddenly hefted a bottle of dark spirits. “Tomorrow night, gentlemen. I’ve uncovered the most delightful recipe in the pages of Blackwood’s.” He clapped Rye on the back once again. “We shall toast to my brother’s happiness with the flowing bowl.”

All the men cheered in approval, and I turned to meet Gage’s eye, rolling my eyes in resigned amusement. All of Edinburgh society—perhaps all of Britain—was well-acquainted with the recipes for Punch touted in the pages of Blackwood’s Magazine, often in the column Noctes Ambrosianae—Ambrosian Nights. Rum Punch, Brandy Punch, Hot Whisky Punch. And while the ones I’d tasted were often delicious, they were not without risk, for depending on the formula, it became all too easy to imbibe too much. Punch often being the preferred beverage at clubs and other gatherings of gentlemen, Gage had more experience with the flowing bowl, as Brady and other wits called it. Usually he kept his head about him, but once or twice he had returned home giddy and rather amorous after a night of Punch-swilling, and woke the next morning with a pounding skull. Not that I’d minded his impassioned overtures. Not in the least. But with an infant already interrupting my sleep, it did complicate matters somewhat.

Heat sparked in Gage’s eyes, and I turned away even as he sidled closer, leaning down to murmur in my ear. “Perhaps I should ask Mallery to make up a bowl for the ladies as well. I seem to recall how much you enjoyed the Punch that Dalmay served the night before his wedding to Lady Caroline.”

I flushed, my skin prickling as much from the gust of his breath over the sensitive skin behind my ear as the titillating memory. We had been married for less than a month when Michael and Caroline’s wedding took place, and the Punch in question had made me rather uninhibited. Certainly more so than usual. Though my recollections were somewhat hazy, I did recall saying several things aloud that I couldn’t believe I’d actually uttered unbidden and even now made me blush to think of. Fortunately, Gage hadn’t minded in the least, though he seemed to delight in teasing me about them. From time to time, he even used his considerable powers of persuasion to convince me to say them again.

I lowered my head and coughed, trying to shield my red face from the others, lest they notice.

However, Brady chose that moment to literally sweep me off my feet in one of his crushing embraces, expelling all the air from my lungs. “Kiera, it’s been an age. And I hear you’re a mother, noo. Imagine that.”

I gasped more than laughed, though I had to appreciate my cousin’s enthusiasm and the steady transformation his accent underwent. The longer he talked, the more rolling his brogue became. Now that he was back in the Highlands with his father and great-uncle, who never bothered to mask their accent, he’d softened the crisp British accent all gentlemen learned to emulate in the English public schools and universities. It was the accent used by the Quality in Parliament and to conduct business. Sadly, to be taken seriously among the nobility and London society, it was all but required.

“Best put her doon, lad,” Uncle Dunstan said with a chuckle. “Looks like you’ve driven the wind from her.”

“Oh! Apologies, cousin.” He grinned unrepentantly as I stumbled back a step. “I dinna ken my own strength.”

I thought it was less his strength—for he was shorter and sparer than many of the men in attendance—and more the energy that bristled through him like a voltaic pile conducting an electric current. Even his chestnut brown hair seemed incapable of being restrained, sticking up in tufts around his head, much like mine constantly escaped from its pins.

“It’s good to see you, too, Brady,” I replied, and meant it. With him around, the festivities would undoubtedly be livelier, and maybe that’s exactly what we needed. The art forgeries had distracted us from the real reason we were there—Charlotte and Rye’s wedding. While serious, the only clear victim of the frauds and possible theft was Barbreck, and since those crimes had been committed some time ago, there was no real need for urgency. Not when there were other more important matters to attend to.