A Second Chance at Love, A Regency Romance (A Danby Family Novella) by Lilia Birney

December, 1812
    Great Yarmouth, England
     
    Philip Whitton shook off the fog that still clung to his brain, wrinkling his nose at the stench of herring that wafted up from Yarmouth's banks. 'Twas too much for any man to bear, that was for certain. The sooner he was in the Danby traveling Berlin, with its ducal crest and luxurious appointments, the better. He could sleep until they reached the first stop of their journey home. The passage from Den Haag had been rough, but Philip was not one to suffer any pain or discomfort. Fortunately, Captain Baines had been most forthcoming with the beer and ale on board, as one would expect for the second son of a marquess. And when the ale or the wine wasn't enough to dull his sensibilities, there was always the poppy. Laudanum always fed Philip's art, fueled his desires, and dampened reality to a dull roar. Between the liquor and the tinctures, the sailing from Den Haag to Yarmouth was really not as bad as one might expect.
    "Well, sir?" Giles' boots thudded down the gangplank, each footstep a hammer to Philip's temples. "We'd best be on our way. The duke's summons was most urgent."
    Phillip slanted his gaze at his manservant. "The old fellow's not really dying, you know."
    Giles nodded. "I know, but without his support, you can't continue your studies in Rome. He as good as said he would cut you off if you didn't return."
    Philip shook his head. "No. He didn't hint around, Giles. That threat of poverty was all too real. I'd have to sing for my supper then, wouldn't I?"
    The cacophony of seagulls was suddenly pierced by the sweet trill of a nightingale. Philip turned towards the sound, his senses coming back to life. What a fluid sound. He could replicate it if only his harpsichord or even his violin was with him, but the violin was still in the ship's hold. And the nearest harpsichord was a week-long journey away. He rubbed his hands together to stop their sudden tingling—a sensation that could only be dulled by playing or by his vices.
    "Come, let us go." Philip jerked his head towards the carriage, and Giles nodded. There was no register of surprise on Giles's face, no confusion at his master's sudden change of topic or his abrupt need to begin the journey. Giles had been with him during the most tumultuous years of his life, and knew him well. A little too well. It was damned embarrassing to have anyone know the extent of your suffering, or the depths you were capable of plumbing.
    He climbed into the carriage, thankful for the thick curtains blotting out the daylight. Giles, with infinite tact, climbed onto the box with the coachman. Philip rapped on the window once, blinking at the sound, and the carriage rolled into motion. He rested his aching head against the plush velvet seat and tugged a silver flask from his coat pocket. A little hair of the dog was just the thing right now, but he'd have to ration it. Unless—Philip fumbled under the window, seeking the little pocket that hugged the wall of the coach. It was empty. Of course. No doubt his grandfather had seen to that. Oh well, he'd just have to ration what he had left most carefully.
    He allowed himself one long, burning draught of the flask's contents and settled back into the cushions. This was a deuced sight different from the way he'd left England two years ago. Philip touched his neck gingerly, but of course the rope burns were no longer there. The marks of his suicide attempt had faded long ago, though the memory was as fresh as yesterday. The days following his attempted hanging were chaotic, jumbled together not by the passage of time but his own befuddled mind. His sister Emma had found him, just in the nick of time. Her screams had echoed through Danby Castle, bringing Giles running. Through the haze of his own misery, he could still recall his mother's tearful pleading, his father's face settling into lines of despair. And then the visit from grandfather, his lectures on fortitude and courage, his elderly voice