Page 40 of Dick Stone, Regency Stud
“To dinner? I suppose so. Would likely be a good meal.”
Edward thought he heard muttering along the lines of “for someone.”
“Will you do me a favor, Tobias?” Edward asked, feeling about for his friend’s hand.
The lad took his hand in his own and shook it manfully. “At your service.”
“Will you try to discover what else has been said about Dalpole and his wife? I can’t help but feel that this whole thing is more complicated than they’re letting on.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I suspect I’m going to die,” said Edward honestly. “But I think that about everything, so it’s not a good sign of what’s going to happen.”
Before departing, Tobias patted his hand and ensured the cravat was positioned correctly.
“I’ll take care of it, Dick Stone.”
Chapter 4
The venison had beenperfectly cooked, the syllabub divine. Lord Edward Richard Stone recognized that he’d soon pay for the luxurious filling of his belly with the draining of his balls. Thankfully, he was well used to such trades and enjoyed them.
“You served in the cavalry? Peninsular War?” asked Baron Dalpole, pouring brandy at a sideboard for both of them in the dining room a few minutes after the lady of the house had retired to the drawing room.
“I did, with my faithful steed, Tencendor,” said Edward, accepting the glass of fine liquor no doubt carried back from France by the baron personally after Waterloo. It had the taste of victory, and he couldn’t help but enjoy drinking such a quality blend again. “And we are all thankful for your service underthe command of the Beau,” referring to one of the Duke of Wellington’s many nicknames.
The baron offered a cigar, but Edward declined, wishing to avoid offending theenceintelady’s senses when he inevitably got close to her later.
“Old Nosey has done the nation proud, and I’m pleased to have served under him, despite some losses of a more personal nature,” said the baron, flicking his fingernail at that distinctive glass eye resulting from battle.
The men stretched out in their chairs and enjoyed the fine liquor and companionable peace. They’d not interacted socially other than brief hellos at the club, but the smoke from the baron’s cigar settled over them like dusk on those battlefields they’d both survived, more or less intact.
The baron eventually stood, removing the chamber pot from a cabinet at the side of the room. As he relieved himself, he spoke.
“I worried war wounds might prevent me from getting Charlotte in a breeding state, if I may be so indelicate,” he said as he pissed into the pot. “You see, I suffered grievous injury to my person. More than just the eye.”
Edward realized that the baron meant for him to look up and regard his exposed piece. The man’s cock seemed perfectly functional, but what remained of his sack appeared to be a tangled mass of scar tissue with additional scarring on his upper thigh.
“Gesù, I’d fight Boney again for causing that,” said Edward, nodding to the man’s organ.
“It’s a miracle I got a child on my wife, given the extent of the injuries,” said the baron, tucking himself away. “For the longest time, we assumed your services would be required if we were to have an heir.”
Edward lowered his head, uncertain about what to say to a man who had nearly been prevented from fathering his own heir by Bonaparte’s army.
“You see, some of us have given more than others,” said the baron with a sanctimonious smile.
Edward was supposed to return with acknowledgements of thanks for the man’s service, as if he too hadn’t fought bravely. He resented the unfair characterization of his own record as deficient, if not treasonous. But such was the roll of the bones.
“We have you to thank for the impending arrival,” said the baron, bouncing on his feet as if slightly nervous.
Why was he thanking Edward? And why on earth would a hero of Waterloo be nervous in his own home? It boggled the mind. He’d lost an eye, nearly lost a cock, and had the privilege of knowing Wellington himself. What could be the cause?
“If I’m truthful,” the man said, continuing to rock, “my wife and I enjoyed the idea of you breeding her so much that we apparently carried out the task ourselves despite my physical limitations.”
Few things shocked Lord Edward. By 1817, he’d seen every cutpurse and angry husband from across the metropolis. But this? It stunned him to his core. And his rapidly swelling cock.
“Is that so?” asked Edward slowly, leaning back in his chair, feeling like he should settle in for an interesting story.
***
