Bitch!  The Baronet unlocked the door, more than slightly irritated that nobody had opened it for him.  Chilton would probably be asleep.  When Philip had left that afternoon, he had told everyone to take the rest of the day for themselves, as he didn't expect to be back for a while.  A 'while' with his Polly, could turn into a month, if he wasn't careful, and he had to admit, he had missed her...company...while he was rectifying some accounting glitches in favor of a former employee.  It had taken a couple of months to hunt the little bastard down.  Glynde had men for that, of course, and there was always Bow Street, but he so preferred to take care of that sort of thing personally.  But that was now finished, with the bloody pulp of a thief in the hull of a ship heading for the Americas...

Sir Philip Glynde entered his home, and shouted for his valet.  The door was slammed hard enough to shake the walls.  "Chilton!"  Philip roared again, as he limped his way into his study, heading straight for the brandy on the other side of the room.  "Bloody hell!" He muttered under his breath, making a mental note to distribute the decanters more liberally...nearer the door.  The flask - he never failed to carry the thing in a hidden coat-pocket - had been emptied long before he had walked his horse back to his townhouse.  He threw the flask at the wall, it riccocheted and came to rest in the center of his desk.

"Chilton!!!"  Was the man deaf?  Glynde finally reached his 'medicine' cabinet, immediately draining a large decanter of whiskey, and moving on to...on to...he squinted at the label, his vision swimming with rage, alcohol, and a bit of pain.  Pain.  He had to sit down.  Philip sank into his favorite chair, only to stand straight up again.  No.  Sitting was bad, he remembered.  He opened the bottle, and made to drain its contents as well, only to stop halfway through.  Glynde spit half back out.  Bloody french vinegar!  It's corked.  Tossing it over his shoulder, he found a half-empty bottle of scotch to wash the taste out of his mouth, then grabbed for his port.  Empty.

Philip stared.  There was an EMPTY bottle in his liquor cabinet?!  With a wordless roar, he threw the thing across the room.  It sailed through the door, and shattered into a million pieces in the center of the marble-floored foyer.  The force set the man off-balance in his drunken state, and he crashed to the floor, landing heavily on his injury, taking the now-empty liquor cabinet with him. "Bloody..."  a loud belch finished his sentence.

With a sigh, he rolled onto his stomach to avoid bleeding any more onto the prescious persian rug.  Resting his chin in his hands, he stared, unseeing, at the open door to his study.  What next?  Was this retribution?  As if finding his paramour in the arms of another wasn't enough - did it have to be that blasted Irish bugger?  In the middle of turning the bastard into a boneless mass, the bitch started shooting.

Why, oh why did Philip have to give her a little pistol for her birthday.  He made sure she had all the protection she wanted in a burly butler, and half a dozen footmen at her beck-and-call, but no...he HAD to have a tiny one specially made.  Because he had cared for the bitch.  Glynde remembered how much fun it had been to teach her to shoot the thing.  The little bitch.

Philip folded his arms, and rested his forehead.  He would never live this down.  Women.  Bloody women.  He'd been shot a number of times before, but never by a woman.  Nearly died from a lead-ball in the chest, but lived to tell a tale of bravery and loyalty to his country.  This, however, he would not survive.  His reputation would be in tatters on the morrow.  Men who, until now, had quivered in their boots at the mere sound of his name would be laughing, and pointing at Sir Philip Glynde, Baronet, shot in the arse by his paramour.  She ruined his favorite breeches into the bargain.  He sighed, satisfied that her new lover would never be useful to a woman in that capacity again.  If she were a man, he'd kill the bitch in a dawn-appointment...but how on earth was he going to explain away a lead-ball up the backside?!

Philip groaned.  Bloody women.  Deceitful little things.  An Irishman.  Why an Irishman?  Why that Irishman?  Philip thought exhaustedly, as he drifted off to sleep.  Bloody bloody pain in the arse!