by Jen
by Jen
India….
Diana Villiers was throwing a party. It was a particularly good party as Diana Villiers never threw bad ones. There had been a set guest list, she swore there was, but it seemed everyone in the vicinity of Bombay this night had contrived to come to her party.
Lieutenant William Lawford was slumped wantonly against a wall in the far corner, eyes closed, mouth open, as Dick Sharpe licked and sucked at the mango juice that had run down Lawford's fingers and wrist.
"Have you seen my nephew?" McCandless asked of his friend Pierson, but Methos was distracted, glancing around for the immortal he felt so very close by, but Macleod was already passed out face down on the floor, kilt awry, leaving even the most casual observer in doubt as to what this particular Scotsman wore under his kilt.
A worried looking blond was staring at Macleod's exposed flanks like a starving man at his first meal.
"Nicolah! There you are, darling. Come and see who Lacroix has found."
The dark brunette, with a fierce beauty to rival the hostess, dragged her unwilling companion beside her to the other side of the ball room.
Lacroix was standing archly by an overwrought candelabra, watching the crowd like a lion in the grass, a dark, brooding and handsome young man beside him.
"Angelus," Jeanette purred, and Angelus, smiling, stooped to kiss the proffered hand, licking at her flesh. Jeanette's eyes burned, but over her shoulder Angelus saw the most exquisite young naval officer in deep discussion with the most exquisite army major in scarlet.
"I'm so glad I found you here."
Horatio's eyes were dark and unfathomable. Dare Edrington hope for the light he believed he saw buried in their depths.
"What of Kennedy?" asked Edrington, unable to stop himself.
Horatio gave a loose limbed shrug.
"He's here, somewhere."
Pellew sipped at his claret, watching Lieutenant Kennedy and the even more blonde Lieutenant Aubrey start at opposite ends of the table and graze along it to their inevitable meeting in the middle. Watching them, so alike in many ways, he did wonder.
"Those naval officers shall get fat," Stephen Maturin remarked sourly to his companion, a worldly monk and great herbalist, before returning to their in depth discussion on the many uses and types of wormwood, Cadfael only pausing to notice an old and dear friend, Hugh, walk past in a provost's uniform.
Hugh Beringar and Lachlan Macquarie both turned from the punch bowl as an enormous drunken roar went up from the 73rd, led by Captain Cochrane, already in a state of disarray. Hugh made a few mental calculations and decided to let the Scotsman get considerably more inebriated before trying anything like restraining him.
Macquarie was distracted by his wife laughing with Villiers by the balcony. That boded no good.
He turned back to the table, where across the hogs face Ross Poldark admired Amanda.
Wellington made his entrance, largely ignored, nor did anyone notice Dick Sharpe pocketing some of the heavy silverware as he licked his Lieutenant insensible.
As parties go, there were few better.
THE END
