A Baron for Becky

Chapter nine

"Go after him," Becky said.

Aldridge hesitated. He'd planned to walk Becky home to the town-house and spend the night. But Overton was in a bad way. Aldridge had seen the stricken look in his eyes.

"Go after him," Becky said again. "He is heart sick, Aldridge. He needs his friend."

Overton 'needed' a swift boot to the rear, the way he talked about Becky. Though, it wasn't like him to be cruel. The man was surprisingly prudish, given his amorous exploits, but Aldridge had never doubted his essential kindness. Something was very wrong with him tonight.

"Go," Becky insisted. "I'll stay here tonight with Sarah. And I'll be here, or at the town-house, when you've finished your disgusting bet, sobered him up, and sent him home."

"You heard about the bet?" He winced a little at the word 'disgusting'. He couldn't disagree.

"It is in the papers, Aldridge," she said. "Go after your friend, my dear. I don't know what is haunting him, but go to him."

She was right. He couldn't leave Overton alone, tonight of all nights.

Aldridge, always circumspect in Sarah's presence, contented himself with pressing her hand as he kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, Becky. You're a wonderful woman." Then, to Sarah, "Goodnight, Princess. I'll see you soon."

"Goodnight, Uncle Lord Aldridge. Go and look after the sad man."

He saluted Sarah's cheek, too, and gave the long plait of dark hair an affectionate tug. She was more like her mother every day.

As he'd expected, Overton had made it no farther than the tavern a couple of streets over. "What are you drinking?" Aldridge asked, sliding onto the bench beside him.

"Don't know," Overton said, sinking another from the line before him. Three gone, five to go.

Aldridge had a sniff. Gin. Probably illegally distilled on the premises. Rot gut, certainly.

"Let's go home and get into my brandy." Aldridge suggested, putting his hand over the poison. Overton knocked it out of the way and downed another, roaring like an aggrieved bear when Aldridge sent the last four crashing to the floor, juniper fumes rising from the spreading puddles.

Aldridge knew he wouldn't move. If anyone tried to carry him, he'd fight every inch of the way. Best to let him drink here, then drag him out unconscious. But at least Aldridge could make sure he drank decent brandy. Even if he didn't appreciate it, Aldridge would. The tavern keeper, who had come at the noise, was happy enough to accept a gold guinea for his trouble and a bottle of his finest.

Overton was touchingly grateful. "You're a good friend, Aldridge. You stick by a man. Share the best. Good friend."

Aldridge poured a glass of the brandy the innkeeper brought and inhaled the bouquet. Much better. He handed the glass to Overton, who took a revoltingly large swallow.

"She's beautiful, Aldridge."

Aldridge didn't have to ask who; everyone who met Becky had the same reaction.

"Very beautiful." He poured himself a brandy. Where was Overton going with this? His comment about sharing had better not be related.

"Loves her daughter, doesn't she?"

"She does, Overton. That little girl means everything to her. And I would kill to protect either of them."

Overton waved off the implied threat, shaking his head. "Not going to hurt them. Secret. You told me." He lifted his glass again, this time sipping rather than gulping. "Good stuff, Aldridge. I needed a drink."