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T obias climbed the stairs of the Phoenix Club with more speed than usual. Was he eager to join his friends in the members’ den or running from his obligations at home?

Both.

As soon as he entered the spacious room that occupied more than half of the first floor, he was greeted by Ruark Hannigan, the Earl of Wexford.

Tall with a wiry frame, Wexford was an excellent pugilist with a slightly crooked nose from having it broken more than once.

With his black hair, blue eyes, and devilish smile, he was extremely popular with the ladies.

As far as his Irishness allowed, that was.

He was acceptable enough to flirt with, but an English earl was preferable to an Irish one.

“Overton, I wondered if you might not join us this evening because the arrival of your ward wore you out.”

“I know you are in jest, but it was a distinct possibility. She is full of enthusiasm.” She’d bombarded him with questions at dinner, mostly about things to see and do in London. The poor chit had been horribly isolated in the country. He’d agreed to escort her to the British Museum on Monday.

Tobias followed Wexford to the back corner of the room.

A window nearby overlooked the spectacular garden below where lanterns flickered and a rectangular pool with a statue of Aphrodite in the center reflected the light.

One of the six chairs at the round table was already occupied by Dougal McNair, another of their friends.

Dark-haired MacNair was a pugilist like Wexford, but his shoulders were broader and his nose still straight. He greeted Tobias and signaled to a footman to bring drinks for the new arrivals.

“Evening, MacNair.” Tobias dropped into one of the leather-cushioned chairs next to the Scotsman.

Wexford took the other chair beside Tobias. “Tell us about the ward. Am I going to want to change my marriage plans?” He grinned, for he’d been clear about not taking a wife until he reached the age of thirty. Which meant he had a good three years left.

Tobias narrowed one eye at him. “Could I tell you anything that would do that?”

“No.” Wexford laughed. “But tell us about her anyway.”

The footman arrived with a decanter of brandy and two glasses, which he promptly filled before departing. MacNair already had one that was half full.

Lifting his glass, Tobias took an eager sip.

The activity in his house had been a tad overwhelming, particularly since he’d only just raced home right before his ward’s arrival.

An uncomfortable quiet had settled over the household following his father’s death, but Miss Wingate’s presence had completely changed the atmosphere.

“No Lucien?” Tobias asked, glancing around. Lord Lucien Westbrook was the owner of the club and his closest friend.

“He hasn’t come down from his office yet,” Wexford said in his Irish lilt. “I take that back. He just came in.”

Tobias’s back was to the door, so he swung around and saw the tall figure of his friend enter the members’ den, where he was immediately waylaid by a pair of gentlemen.

People often sought his company, and not just because he was the owner of London’s most exclusive club.

He was also well-known for granting favors to people in need, as he’d recently done for Tobias.

“It’s a damn good thing he found a chaperone for Miss Wingate,” Tobias said, shaking his head. “The one she brought with her from Shropshire is worse than I expected.”

“Worse how?” Wexford asked.

“Well, she dozes off rather easily and, while sleeping, cries out, usually profanely.”

Both of his tablemates laughed.

“What is so amusing?” Lucien asked as he took the chair next to MacNair. The footman promptly delivered a fourth glass.

“Overton was just telling us about his ward’s unfortunate chaperone.”

Lucien’s dark eyes widened. “How can that be? Miss Lancaster is excellent.”

“Not that chaperone,” Tobias clarified. “The one from Shropshire. It’s a very good thing you introduced me to Miss Lancaster. Mrs. Tucket would not have been acceptable here in London.”

Lucien’s brows climbed. “I see. I look forward to hearing what Lady Pickering thinks of Mrs. Tucket.”

Lady Pickering was the sponsor who would shepherd Miss Wingate through her Season.

A close friend of Lucien’s family, she was a well-respected lady in Society with excellent connections.

The only person Tobias could have asked—and did—was his grandmother and, as expected, she’d refused to come to London.

Lucien had rushed to the rescue, as he often did.

“Mrs. Tucket wasn’t very enthused to learn of Miss Lancaster,” Tobias said. “She feels as if she’s being pushed aside.”

“Which she is,” Wexford pointed out helpfully.

“I can’t imagine how she’ll react to Lady Pickering tomorrow.” Tobias couldn’t decide if he was dreading or anticipating it.

“Lady Pickering has the patience of a particular bird of prey,” Lucien said with a smile.

“And the brutality of one if you cross her.” MacNair’s shoulders twitched as he picked up his brandy, and Lucien laughed.

“Not that I’ve ever been on her bad side, mind you.

I think I’d run from London and never return.

” MacNair leaned toward Lucien and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper.

“Why hasn’t she ever responded to our invitation to join the club? ”

All four of them were members of the Phoenix Club’s secret invitation committee. They, along with Mrs. Renshaw, who managed the lady’s side of the club, and two anonymous members, decided who within Society and without were invited to join.

Lucien shrugged. “There are those who look down at the club.” He also kept his voice low.

Wexford snorted. “Because they’re jealous. That can’t apply to Lady Pickering, however. Why would she be jealous of anyone or anything?”

“While you’re probably right, I suspect she doesn’t want to align herself with the club because it may alienate some people with whom she would prefer to remain connected.

And she won’t decline because I suspect she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.

” Because she’d been a close friend of his mother’s. That made sense to Tobias.

A brief smile passed over Lucien’s lips. “Furthermore, I believe she very much supports the fact that the club includes women, even if we keep the sexes mostly separate. Indeed, that division is what keeps us respectable.”

“I would think she’d join eventually,” MacNair said quietly. “The ladies’ club has four exceptionally admirable patronesses. Lady Pickering would fit right in.”

Lucien snorted softly. “Don’t think I haven’t presented that argument. Mrs. Holland-Ward is a good friend of hers.” She was one of the patronesses along with Lady Dungannon, Lady Hargrove, and Mrs. Renshaw.

“You still haven’t told us about Miss Wingate,” Wexford said, raising his voice back to a normal volume. “Are she and Lucien’s sister going to be rivals to be named the Season’s diamond?”

Lucien snorted. “Cassandra will gleefully cede the attention. She’s not terribly enthused about having her Season, but our father will not allow her to push it off any longer.”

“Especially since you’ve completely rejected his efforts to see you wed,” MacNair said. “He has to manage someone.”

“I suppose it’s possible Miss Wingate could be the Season’s diamond.

” Tobias had been surprised and perhaps a bit unnerved by her beauty.

With a heart-shaped face graced with a slender nose and pink lips that formed a perfect bow and a gently curved figure, she possessed the form and features of an ideal English miss.

But her dark red hair contrasted against the fair cream of her countenance made her stand out and demanded one ponder whether her temperament matched the serenity of her countenance.

Or perhaps it was the spark in her brown eyes.

With unmatched curiosity, her gaze assessed everything she encountered as if she were committing each item to memory.

“She’s pretty?” Wexford asked.

“Yes, but she has dark red hair.” Which Tobias found arresting. “Some will find it off-putting, I imagine.”

“Then they aren’t worth her time,” MacNair said. He was well-used to people judging him based on the almond color of his skin, or at least regarding him as if he were out of place in Society.

Wexford raised his glass. “Hear, hear.”

They all shared in the toast.

“Enough about my ward,” Tobias said. “I’ve far more pressing matters than dealing with her. Thankfully, Lady Pickering will have things well in hand so that I may focus on my own predicament.”

“Ah, yes, the need for a wife,” Wexford said. He leaned back in his chair and, smirking, looked toward Lucien. “What about Lucien’s sister?”

Lucien glowered at him in response.

Tobias shook his head at Lucien. “You do realize she’s going to wed, and you won’t get a say.”

“I know that.” He scowled. “But none of you can marry her, do you understand?”

“I don’t even want to get married,” MacNair said defensively.

“Nor do I,” Wexford put in. “At least not yet. Your sister is safe from us, and I won’t joke about her anymore.” He rolled his eyes to punctuate the statement—which told Tobias he just wouldn’t joke about her marriage prospects in front of Lucien.

“You didn’t say anything.” Lucien speared Tobias with an expectant stare.