Page 90

“No, just the same manipulation from his grave. I should have postponed bringing Miss Wingate to London until after I was wed. Then she could be my wife’s problem.”

“Your poor wife,” Lucien said, smirking.

“Why? Managing young ladies is far more suited to a wife than to someone like me.”

“You just referred to Miss Wingate as a problem. That sounds like a…problem.”

Snorting, Tobias went to the collection of chairs near the hearth and dropped into a wingback chair. “She’s out of her element completely.”

Lucien sat opposite him. “Isn’t Lady Pickering schooling her?”

“Yes, but in hindsight, I should have delayed Miss Wingate’s introduction to Society and given her more time to learn what’s expected of her.”

Lucien shrugged. “You still can. Have her focus on her studies for a fortnight or however long. Then, when she’s more comfortable, she can reenter.”

Stretching his legs out and clutching his whisky on the arm of the chair, Tobias pondered his friend’s suggestion. “Perhaps I should. I was so hellbent on seeing her wed so that I could focus on finding a countess that I failed to see she wasn’t ready.”

“Did something happen this evening?” Lucien asked.

“We went to the Billingsworth musicale.” Tobias glowered at his friend. “She went off with your sister, and I found them wagering at loo. Since Miss Wingate had no money, Lady Cassandra supplied her with the necessary funds.”

Lucien exhaled. “My apologies. But really, there’s no harm in what they were doing. Unless Cass was throwing in with the high stakes ladies? Lady Billingsworth is known for her deep play.”

“No, they were playing for pennies, but I still don’t like it. Miss Wingate’s father is not a duke. She doesn’t even have a father. She’s a nobody from the country.” Tobias realized he hadn’t paused to censor himself as he had with Lucien’s brother.

“Whose guardian is an earl and whose sponsor is the inestimable Lady Pickering. She is also, apparently, a close friend of that daughter of a duke. I think you underestimate Miss Wingate’s standing.”

“Perhaps.” Tobias took a long, satisfying drink of whisky.

Wexford tossed himself into a nearby chair. “What’s worrying Deane?” he asked no one in particular.

Lucien chuckled. “I called him Deane too.”

“Oh hell,” Wexford said, laughing. “Was bound to happen.”

“He’d rather we call him that.”

“Done.” Wexford eyed Tobias’s glass. “You’re almost out, and I forgot to pour myself something.” The Irishman stood. “What about you, Lucien? Need a refill?”

“Not yet.”

As Wexford stood, Tobias threw the rest of his drink down his throat and held out his empty glass. “It’s the Scotch whisky.”

Wexford made a face and a gagging sound. “Disgusting bilge water. Doesn’t come close to Irish.”

“Then why is there still so much of yours in the cellar?” Lucien teased.

Wexford snatched the glass from Tobias’s fingertips. “Because I hide it so you lot don’t drink it all.” Chuckling, he went to the cabinet where the Phoenix Club’s butler restocked the supply every day.

“Deane is frustrated by his ward,” Lucien said. “And my sister, who has befriended his ward.”

“Is Lady Cassandra causing trouble?” Wexford called from the sideboard.

Lucien’s brows pitched into a deep V. “Why would you say that?”

Wexford returned with two glasses and handed one to Tobias, then the other to Lucien. “Because she’s your sister.”

Tobias snickered. “He has a point. And she did take my ward into Lady Billingsworth’s card room.”

Turning when he’d reached the liquor cabinet again, Wexford swept up his glass of presumably Irish whisky and started back toward them. “Lady Billingsworth? I hope you didn’t give your ward much pin money, Deane.”

“I didn’t give her any. She was only able to play because Lady Cassandra supported her.”

Casting himself into a chair and sipping his drink, Wexford looked to Lucien. “Sounds as though your sister is causing trouble.” His vivid blue gaze darkened. “I know all about troublesome sisters.” Because he had four of them.

“She’s not, but I’ll talk to her nevertheless.”

“No need. Aldington said he would do it.”

“You spoke to him about this?” Lucien asked. “Ah, he was at the musicale. I’m so glad I’m not the heir,” he murmured before taking a drink with a thoroughly smug expression on his face.

“He was, but we discussed the matter at White’s. I stopped in there before coming here.”

Wexford goggled at him. “ Why? ”

“To improve his reputation,” Lucien said with a snort. “As if a few visits to White’s to drink with my brother will erase the past two years of his debauchery.”

Tobias tossed a glare to each of them. “I’m beginning to think your brother was better company.” This earned him laughter from both men. Tobias glanced toward the door. “Where’s MacNair? He’s less annoying than you two.”

“He had business outside London,” Lucien said. “How was my brother?”

Sipping his whisky, Tobias settled into his chair. “He had a headache. And he asked if I kept my mistress.”

In the process of lifting his glass to his lips, Lucien’s movements arrested as he pinned Tobias with a puzzled stare. “He did?”

“I found it odd too. I asked if he kept his, and he assured me, quite sternly, that he’s never had one.”

“That is certainly true. At least to my knowledge.” Lucien took the drink Tobias had interrupted. “Perhaps I should accompany him and my father with Cassandra to the queen’s drawing room tomorrow so I can pester him about why he asked you such a thing.”

“You can’t do that.” Tobias looked at him in exasperation. “I don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”

“But we are ,” Wexford pointed out. He looked to Lucien. “You’d actually go to the drawing room just to investigate that?”

“Not really. I would be utterly redundant. So glad I’m not the heir,” he muttered again.

“I thought Her Majesty rather liked you,” Tobias said.

“She does, but that doesn’t mean I need to attend her drawing room and watch a score of young ladies preen.

” Lucien’s shoulder twitched. He’d never been interested in participating in Society or the Marriage Mart.

His father, the duke, wanted him to wed, but as the spare, Lucien felt no pressure to do so.

Wexford lifted his glass in a toast. “Hear, hear.” Lucien joined him in drinking.

Tobias frowned at his whisky. He missed the days when he was not consumed with thoughts of marriage, whether his own or that of Miss Wingate. He’d feel much better when she was settled and no longer his concern.

“Can either of you think of a well-regarded gentleman who is looking for a wife? He doesn’t need to be titled, but he must have a good reputation.” Tobias wouldn’t marry her off to a scoundrel.

He realized many in Society regarded him that way, or as a rogue, at least. Dammit. He was trying. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a week, and he’d focused the bulk of his energy on establishing his presence in the Lords.

“For Miss Wingate, I presume?” Lucien asked. “I’m trying to think of gentlemen who’ve joined the club this Season.”

“What about Witney’s spare? I met him at Brooks’s the other night.” Wexford waved his hand. “Yes, I still go there on occasion. Call me out if you must.”

Lucien laughed and cast a look of mock disdain at Tobias. “At least it isn’t White’s.”

“Anyway, his name’s Lord Gregory Blakemore,” Wexford continued. “He’s an unassuming sort. He’s been teaching at Oxford but may become a rector. I gather he is considering taking a wife.”

“It’s easier to obtain a living if you have one,” Lucien noted.

“He’s a scholar then?” Tobias thought of Miss Wingate’s interest in maps and wondered if they might, in fact, suit.

“Definitely,” Wexford said after swallowing some whisky.

“Sounds promising.” And as the second son, he likely wouldn’t care that Miss Wingate wasn’t in possession of an impeccable pedigree. Plus, she had a sizable dowry thanks to Tobias’s father. One that would grow even larger if Tobias didn’t wed.

Bloody hell, it kept coming back to that, didn’t it? He drank the rest of his whisky in one long gulp, then stood.

“Are we driving you away?” Lucien asked.

Setting his glass on a table, Tobias straightened his waistcoat. “No, just time to turn in.”

Wexford glanced toward the clock standing between a pair of windows that looked down on Ryder Street below. “It’s early yet.”

“I’m a respectable gentleman now,” Tobias said, brushing his sleeve. “I must keep respectable hours.”

Snorting, Wexford lifted his glass once more. “Better you than me.”

“Hear, hear,” Lucien said, echoing Wexford’s earlier words before taking a drink himself.

As Tobias made his way downstairs, the port and whisky caught up with him. The sounds of the gaming room called to him like a siren, but he held fast and went to the entry hall where a footman fetched his hat and gloves.

Donning the accessories, Tobias thanked the footman before stepping into the cold night. Thankfully, it sobered him slightly. But only slightly. Brooks’s was a short walk away, as were any number of other entertainments, including the lodgings of his—former—mistress on Jermyn Street.

He could walk there or to St. James’s to grab a hack. Both held temptations. He’d walk up to Piccadilly instead.

“’Evening, Toby,” came a familiar feminine coo.

Closing his eyes briefly, Tobias exhaled, his breath curling from him in a wisp of steam in the chilly air. “Barbara, why are you out in the cold?” She wore a thick cloak, but there was truly no reason for her to be out here.

She sauntered close to him. “Just out for a stroll.”

He shook his head as her familiar scent battered at his defenses, already weakened by the liquor he’d imbibed. “I’m not walking you home.”

Curling her hand around his waist, she smiled up at him. “How about I walk you home? To my lodgings, that is.” Her fingers brushed against his backside.

Typically, his body would jolt with awareness at her touching him like that, his cock hardening.

And part of him did want her—the part that was warm and addled with whisky.

The rest of him didn’t want her, and he wasn’t entirely certain why.

Perhaps he was finally ready to actually be the man his father wanted him to be.

No, not that. Never that. Giving in to a flash of rebellion, Tobias lifted his hand to stroke his gloved fingertips along Barbara’s soft, round cheek.

Fuck his father and his machinations.

Except if he truly wanted to win, he needed to wed, and this was not how he would accomplish that.

Tobias stepped from her embrace. “Good night, Barbara.”

He turned and quickly made his way to Piccadilly and the boring safety of a hired hack.