The
Falcon & the Philosopher Inn, Cambridgeshire – December 1814
Flickering
light from the hearth at the far end of the taproom cast a warm glow across the
floor, wooden beams, and six very serious gentlemen gathered in a circle around
one of the tables. Only an occasional pop or crackle from the fire made any
sound in the otherwise vacant tavern.
“Richard
would want us to drink to his name,” Rowan Findley announced, lifting a glass
of whiskey out before him.
Robert
Hurst, the Earl of Northcotte, snorted. “Richard would want to be alive,” he
grumbled under his breath, but the others heard him clearly. And on that point
they were all in agreement.
Richard
Hollace, the late Lord Arrington, had lived life to its fullest. He embodied
the sentiment “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.” And
unfortunately, the latter was true in his case. It was the way Lord Arrington
had passed that had caused such a pallor to be cast upon the taproom. No man liked
to think about his own passing, and certainly not passing before one’s time,
but to be killed so viciously, and by one’s own wife…
“Which
is why we should drink to his name,” David Hounslow, the Marquess of Preston
said softly, lifting his glass of whiskey as well.
“Here,
here.” Sebastian Stanwick raised his glass.
The
other three men followed suit as Findley said, “To Richard Hollace, a damn good
friend.”
“With a
generous heart,” Preston added.
“And a
wicked sense of humor,” Nicholas Beckford, Lord Edgeworth tossed in.
“The
life of every party,” agreed Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell.
“Knower
of all things equine.” Northcotte smiled sadly.
“Knower
of all things female.” Stanwick frowned.
That
last bit swirled about the room, each man ruminating over the truth of it. Had
Arrington known fewer females, he might very well be alive this night. He
wouldn’t be lying six feet under with a hole in his head in the shape of a fire
iron. The six of them wouldn’t have driven through the snow to Cambridgeshire
on short notice. And they wouldn’t have sat through their old school chum’s
funeral, wondering how such a tragedy could have befallen the man.
One by
one, they swallowed the contents of their glasses, each wondering how the world
had stopped making sense. Ladies didn’t murder their husbands. They just didn’t
do such things, except… Well, except one
did. Something the lot of them would have thought unfathomable a fortnight
earlier had become a tragic and quite frightening truth.
“What’s
going to happen to her?” Preston asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard
over the crackling fire.
“She’s
been taken to Newgate,” Edgeworth replied. “I expect they’ll hang her.”
“Richard
should have been more careful of her sensibilities,” Stanwick said, raking a
hand through his midnight black hair. “He should have taken care that she not
find out about his paramours.”
“I doubt
he thought his wife was capable of such a thing,” Berkswell returned.
“I doubt
any man thinks so.” Findley sighed.
“And yet
women are very clearly capable of such things,” Northcotte began, “One only has
to look as far as Richard for proof.”
Again,
silence befell the six men. One only did have to look as far as Richard to see
that women were very clearly capable of murder. Northcotte had never spoken
truer words.
“Well,
that settles it then—” Findley broke the silence, slamming his glass on the
table in front of him a little harder than was necessary “—I’m never getting
married. That’s the best and only way I can think of to avoid Richard’s fate.”
It only
took half a second for Preston to say, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Well,
then, what about you?” Findley glanced from Berkswell to Northcotte to
Edgeworth to Stanwick.
Berkswell
scrubbed a hand across his jaw and shook his head. “Certainly not worth the
risk. My brother can inherit.”
“As can
my cousin,” Northcotte added solemnly.
“Never
planned on marrying anyway.” Edgeworth shrugged.
“Nor I,”
Stanwick agreed.
“Then
we’re agreed,” Findley announced, lifting his glass in the air once more. “I,
Rowan Findley, hereby solemnly vow to never take a wife.”
The
other five lifted their glasses and repeated the vow in unison.
Famous
last words, most assuredly…
