The damned winter weather was good for something. As they walked, the four men gathered up handfuls of slush and broke off icicles from the eaves and fence grilles where the melting snow had refrozen. They wrapped the stuff in lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchiefs, and applied it to Woody’s swelling eye, Algie’s split lip, Courtney’s bloody knuckles, and the lieutenant’s nose, which they did not think was broken. The other patrons of Hamlet’s gave the quartet a wide berth except for a red-haired serving girl with half-unlaced bodice who came to ask their pleasure. She addressed all of them, but looked only at Courtney. “He’s already had his fill for the night,” the lieutenant slurred. “Broke m’beak provin’ it. My turn.” So the wench took Hydock upstairs, to tend to his poor nose and his purse. The viscount was aggravated. He’d wanted male companionship, not reminders of male concupiscence. He hadn’t wanted to come to any place so inauspiciously named as Hamlet’s anyway, having had quite enough of that to-be-or-not-to-be folderol.
