Basil could feel his blood boiling under his skin at his brother’s last comment. He managed to ignore the majority of the stupid arguments Atticus made, usually, and tonight he’d planned for this little altercation to be no different. But as the accusation of being drunk slipped from his menace of a sibling’s lips, Basil felt the urge to round on him and slap Atticus clean in the face. Closing blue-grey hues and attempting to steady himself, Basil tried to reason that they were still in public very much visible to anyone who might meander past. He had to keep a hold of his composure, however much he might want to let it all rage.

“Don’t you dare question my composure,” he replied, voice low and dangerous.

Basil didn’t much care what Atticus chose to do, whether he decided to come to the Morgan’s event or not, but the very implication of needing a spotter set his teeth on edge. Tipping his hat down further over his head, Basil willed desperately for a wretched hansom to appear. He bit back a scathing remark about Atticus’ inability to chaperone anyone because he still needed a governess himself, and finally - finally - a driver seemed to take note of him.

As the hansom pulled up before them, a big brown thoroughbred tugging it along, Basil let out a short breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He gave the man instruction on where to go and climbed in, slamming the door hard in Atticus’ face. (His brother could find his own way there, damn him.) Turning to face him, Basil’s face hardened. “Do what you like,” he spat out. “But heed my warning: I shan’t mind making a spectacle of you tonight if you push any more.”

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