Page 29 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

London

“C heer up, old chap. It might never happen.”

Alexander glanced at Thorpe as they approached the entrance to White’s.

It already has.

The footman at the door arched an eyebrow at Alexander, then bowed.

“Welcome back, Lord Thorpe, and…Your Grace.”

“The Duke of Sawbridge is my guest, Grantchester,” Thorpe said. “I’m sponsoring the renewal of his membership application.”

“Of course, sir, very good.” The footman gave an obsequious little bow. “Welcome back to White’s, Your Grace.”

“There’s no guarantee that the secretary will approve my application, Grantchester,” Alexander said. “It would therefore be wise to restrain yourself from an excess of civility toward me until you’re in a better position to determine where your loyalty lies.”

The footman’s smile slipped and Thorpe ushered Alexander inside.

“There’s no benefit in abusing the staff here,” he said, “or they’ll spit in your brandy.”

“Might improve the taste,” Alexander said. “The stuff they serve here is barely fit to polish the silver.”

“If you’re going to be churlish, I’ll take you elsewhere,” Thorpe said. “My wife would never forgive me if I lost my membership on your account.”

“Lady Thorpe doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’s concerned whether White’s admits you or not,” Alexander said.

“No, but she’s concerned about my association with you ,” Thorpe said. “Perhaps she fears your debauchery is contagious.”

Alexander eyed the clubroom where the occupants were visible through a haze of blue smoke, and footmen paraded about holding trays laden with brandy glasses.

Perhaps if he imbibed a bottle of the stuff he might be able to forget… her .

But no—he’d tried that the night before, and all it had earned him was a dry throat, the expulsion of his supper, and a megrim the next morning reminiscent of a stampede of racehorses in his head.

Thorpe steered Alexander toward a group of empty button-backed leather chairs and waved over a footman.

“My usual, please,” he said. “And the same for my guest.”

The footman bowed and scuttled off.

“I say, I thought it was you!” a familiar voice said. “May we join you?”

The Duke of Westbury appeared, brandy glass in hand, with his eldest son.

“Of course,” Alexander said, rising and offering his hand. “And Mr. Drayton. A pleasure.”

“So,” Westbury said, settling into a seat, “you’ve been readmitted to White’s.”

“Only as a guest,” Alexander said. “Thorpe’s sponsoring my reapplication.”

“Are you in need of a second?” Westbury asked. “I’m happy to oblige.”

“I never considered us to be friends,” Alexander said. “Why would you honor me in such a manner?”

“Perhaps because I’m honoring another.”

Mr. Drayton leaned forward, his youthful face displaying his eagerness. “Is Lady Rex well?” he asked. “I’ve not seen her lately.”

Alexander sighed. Couldn’t he be permitted to enjoy one drink without being plagued by the memory of what he’d lost?

“Drayton, I don’t think that’s any of your—” he began, then broke off as the footman arrived with two glasses of brandy.

Westbury watched him, his sharp gaze filled with understanding.

“My son was inquiring out of kindness, Sawbridge,” he said after the footman left. “He considers Lady Rex to be the paragon of kindness, do you not, Edward?”

The young man nodded.

“Lady Rex was well the last time I saw her,” Alexander said. “But she’s left London for the country. I know not where.”

“Didn’t she—” Drayton began, but Westbury interrupted.

“Edward, perhaps you’d care to tell our friends how you’re progressing with your studies.” He nodded to Alexander. “My son goes up to Oxford later this year.”

“Christchurch College, I presume,” Thorpe said.

Westbury nodded. “Naturally. The dean has promised him my old room.”

“Mine was better—the windows overlooked the River Cherwell,” Thorpe replied. “Your room was on the wrong side of the building—and too close to the tower. You always complained about the clock keeping you awake at night when it struck.”

As his friends reminisced about their Oxford days, Alexander glanced about the clubroom. Then he froze.

Sitting among a group of the least savory men of Society—Viscount de Blanchard, and the utterly vile Mr. MacDiarmid—was Earl Mayhew. A fat cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, he seemed to be regaling them with some no-doubt-sordid tale. Every so often, one of them would throw his head back in an exaggerated gesture and roar for more brandy, much to the tutting of the members sitting nearby.

Then Alexander caught a name, and a ball of anger coiled like a spring in his heart.

“ Lady Rex, indeed!” Mayhew chortled. “In my experience, no lady screams like a bitch in heat when I…”

Laughter drowned out his voice.

The spring snapped. Alexander leaped out of his chair and strode toward Mayhew, whose laughter died as he approached, the relish in his eyes turning into terror. He glanced toward his friends, but like all bullies, they shriveled when faced with a stronger opponent, and fell silent, their portly figures wobbling with fear as Alexander’s three companions followed him over.

“S-Sawbridge,” Mayhew stammered, looking to his friends for support.

“What are you doing here?” De Blanchard asked.

“Be quiet, you worm,” Westbury said. “Or shall I send for my wife to deal with you as she sees fit?”

De Blanchard paled, and his hands involuntarily covered his groin.

So—the rumors were true that Westbury’s wife had once come close to castrating De Blanchard with a single blow after he’d tried to force himself on her.

“As for you, MacDiarmid, I’m surprised to see you showing your face here. Don’t you prefer to spread rumors about those whom you seek to demonize, rather than face them like a man? You always were a sniveling wretch, though you’re among your kind here.”

De Blanchard rose to his feet. “I’m not willing to remain here and be insulted,” he said, his voice wavering. “Come along, chaps.”

MacDiarmid stood, but Mayhew remained sitting.

“I’m staying,” he said. “I’ve my brandy to finish, and I want to get my money’s worth—just as I did with that slut.”

De Blanchard and MacDiarmid exchanged a glance, then exited the clubroom.

Thorpe placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder.

“Come away, friend,” he said quietly. “Mayhew isn’t worth risking your standing in the club.”

“I couldn’t give a farrier’s fuck about my standing in the club,” Alexander said.

“That much is apparent,” Mayhew sneered, “given that you were content to associate yourself with that whore whom you tried to pass off as a lady.”

“She’s more of a lady than you are a gentleman,” Alexander said. He raised his hand, and Mayhew flinched. “What is it?” Alexander said, gesturing toward the bruise on Mayhew’s face. “Afraid I’ll finish the job now you’ve not got a paid subordinate to fight your duels for you?”

Mayhew touched his bruised face. “Do you see what sort of savage you’re sponsoring, Thorpe? And you, Westbury—given the circumstance of your son’s birth, I’d have thought you the last man who’d want to associate himself with this savage.”

“Savage?” Alexander snarled. “Tell me, Mayhew, what kind of gentleman would toss an innocent woman out onto the street—the woman his father loved?”

“She was his whore,” Mayhew said. “I’m sure you’ve tossed out many a whore onto the streets when you’ve grown tired of rutting her.”

“She was pregnant, you bastard!” Alexander cried, and a volley of tuts rippled through the clubroom. “She lost the child because of you.”

“I say, old chap,” Thorpe said, “there’s no need to—”

“There’s every need!” Alexander replied. “She was carrying Sir Walter Mayhew’s child. Don’t you see, Mayhew? Your own flesh and blood—your sibling. In throwing her out, you murdered that child.”

“You’ve no right to lecture me on murder, Sawbridge,” Mayhew said. “You killed Radham’s brother.”

“What happened to Radham’s brother was an accident,” Alexander said. “And I’ve regretted it every day since. What you did to her was motivated by greed and envy.”

“I was only claiming what was rightfully mine,” Mayhew said. “I’ve no cause to regret that. And if she lost the brat, so much the better. One less bastard to litter the world with.”

Drayton gave a little cry, and Westbury stepped forward, his eyes darkening with fury.

“I beg your pardon?”

“W-Westbury, I-I didn’t mean—”

Westbury blinked slowly, then reached toward his son and patted his arm, twisting his body around. Then, with a blur of movement, he swung his free arm forward and slammed his fist into Mayhew’s face. Mayhew let out a sigh, then crumpled to the floor.

Two footmen rushed over.

“Your Grace, I hardly think it proper—”

“It was a matter of honor, gentlemen,” Westbury said. “Besides, I barely touched him.”

He poked the prone form with his foot, and Mayhew stirred with a groan. Thorpe stooped, hooked his arms under Mayhew’s shoulders, and helped him into a seat.

“You tripped and fell, didn’t you, Mayhew?” he said. “Just as you were apologizing for insulting Mr. Drayton here and offering to make amends.”

Mayhew glanced from Westbury to Thorpe, his eyes shimmering with fear. At length, he nodded.

“Say it,” Westbury said, his voice quiet and even. “Say that you intend to make amends.”

Mayhew nodded. “I-I intend to make amends.”

“In any manner that my friend here chooses,” Westbury said, gesturing toward Alexander.

“That I choose?” Alexander asked.

“Naturally,” Westbury said. “My son and I no longer care for the taunts of the likes of Mayhew here, but I suspect he may have caused you greater injury. Mayhew, say it.”

Mayhew nodded again. “In any manner that Sawbridge chooses.”

“Very good,” Westbury said. “Gentlemen?” He turned toward the footmen. “Be assured we’ll be on our best behavior from henceforth. And, in a gesture of goodwill, please bring Mayhew a drink of his choice, on my ledger. Mayhew, do join us.”

The footmen bowed and disappeared while Westbury and Thorpe took the seats either side of Mayhew. Alexander sat opposite, beside Westbury’s son.

“I must apologize, Sawbridge,” Westbury said, gesturing toward Mayhew, who flinched. “I trust you’ll forgive me.”

“You gave him what he deserved,” Alexander said.

“But it was, perhaps, more your right to give than mine.”

A footman reappeared with a glass of brandy, but before Mayhew took it, Westbury plucked it from the tray.

“Not yet, Mayhew—you must earn your reward and await my friend’s instructions.”

“Instructions?”

“Sawbridge, if you please.”

Alexander glanced at his friend, then nodded. “I want nothing for myself, Mayhew—but I demand that you atone for what you did to Lady Rex.”

“ Lady Rex! ” Mayhew scoffed. “You don’t know who she really is, do you?”

Thorpe leaned forward, a cold smile on his lips. “Of course we do,” he said. “She’s Jemima King, is she not?”

Mayhew’s eyes widened. “Who told you?”

Thorpe let out a cold laugh. “I believe you just did, but even a simpleton could work it out. I’ve suspected it for some time. Her alias gave her away. Rex is the Latin for king, though not having an Oxford education, one cannot expect you to know that.”

“I went to Cambridge,” Mayhew said.

“Exactly,” Thorpe said. “Your poor father wasted his funds on your education.”

“Better than wasting his funds on that whore.”

“Desist!” Alexander cried. “Do you mean to tell me that you knowingly threw Baron King’s daughter out onto the street, to fend for herself—to subject herself to selling her body to survive?”

“She whored herself to bleed my father dry,” Mayhew said. “I did her a favor, sending her out onto the streets where she could spread her legs for the whole of England.”

“Take care, Mayhew,” Westbury said. “You still have the use of all four of your limbs. I take it you wish for that state to continue?”

Mayhew nodded.

“Perhaps you ought to enlighten us as to how your late father was—as you say— wasting his funds.”

“He was spending my inheritance on jewels and trinkets for that”—Mayhew hesitated and glanced at Alexander’s curled fists—“for Miss King. He even gifted her my late mother’s ring.”

“For what purpose?” Alexander asked.

Mayhew wrinkled his nose as if he’d encountered a foul odor.

Alexander leaned forward. “Did he intend to marry her?”

Mayhew stared at him, defiance in his eyes. Then he nodded.

“She coerced him into offering,” he said. “I discovered it when his solicitor asked me to witness the signing of the contract—as if I’d sign away my rightful property to that slut!”

“Mayhew,” Alexander growled. Thorpe placed a hand on his arm.

“Continue.”

“I confronted the pater about it, and he admitted it—quite shamelessly. We quarreled, and he collapsed. And then…”

“He died, giving you free rein to renege on the contract and act against his wishes,” Westbury said.

“I acted within the authority of the law,” Mayhew said.

“What about the higher authority?” Alexander asked.

“I acted within the law of the Church also,” came the reply. “Even if the contract would have been signed, I doubt any man with morals would approve of my father gifting his property to a slut.”

“Why you…” Alexander rose, but Thorpe grasped his wrist.

“Sawbridge, what good would it do to engage in a brawl?”

“It’d make me feel a damn sight better.”

“What about Miss King?” Thorpe said. “Surely you can think of a better punishment that also atones for the wrong done to her?”

Alexander glanced at Mayhew, then the idea slid into his mind.

Of course…

“Mayhew,” he said, “I promise that I, and my friend, shall never lay a finger on you again if you grant me one thing—which will absolve you of all your sins toward…toward Miss King.”

“Which is?”

“Your late mother’s ring you may keep, as a trinket for the unfortunate woman who becomes your wife. But as to your father’s other gift, I ask that you honor it.”

Mayhew shook his head. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I ask—no, demand—that you settle the property on Miss King that your father originally intended. That is, if you’ve not frittered it away to settle your gaming debts.”

“Of course not!” Mayhew scoffed. “Whatever you think I am, I’m no gamester.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Thorpe said. “I heard you’ve been searching for a rich wife to fund your habit, but nobody is forthcoming. In fact, not even the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who facilitates matches between desperate titled men and wealthy women of doubtful virtue, wishes to inflict you on her clientele.”

Mayhew’s cheeks reddened and he lowered his gaze.

“Then that’s settled,” Westbury said. “I suggest we visit your solicitor forthwith.”

Mayhew’s eyes widened. “N-no, I have another appointment.”

“Come, come, Mayhew,” Alexander said. “As a gesture of faith, you must come with us now. You wouldn’t want us to think that you intend to renege on your promise and bolt as soon as we leave the building?”

“Oh, Sawbridge, how unjust,” Westbury said, amusement in his voice. “I’m sure the thought didn’t even begin to enter Mayhew’s mind.”

“I’ll wager his mind has limited capacity for thought,” Drayton added, grinning.

Westbury patted his son on the back. “Quite right, my boy. Who is your solicitor, Mayhew?”

“John Allardice.”

“Of Allardice, Allardice, and Stockton?” Alexander said. “Mr. Stockton looks after my affairs. We can have the contract drawn up and witnessed this afternoon—is that not fortunate, Mayhew?”

The look on Mayhew’s face conveyed that it was anything but.

Westbury held out the brandy. “I think our friend has now earned his reward.”

Mayhew grasped the glass, tipped it back, and drained the contents.

“Good, very good,” Thorpe said, taking one of Mayhew’s arms, while Westbury took the other. “We can return here once our business is concluded, and I’ll stand you a bottle of champagne. What say you to that?”

“What say you to the prospect of my not agreeing to this?” Mayhew sneered.

“Only that I’ll make it known that you were responsible for the murder of your sibling and the ruination of Baron King’s daughter,” Westbury said. “You confessed it yourself—took pride in it, even. Can you be certain that, given the damage Sawbridge did to his own reputation over a drunken accident, your reputation will emerge unscathed if the world knows of your cruelty? A man—not even a titled one—cannot afford to damage his reputation while he’s seeking a rich wife.”

“Now,” Thorpe said, “I think the time has come to shake Sawbridge’s hand like a gentleman, then we’ll conclude our business.”

Alexander held out his hand, biting back his revulsion as Mayhew took it.

“The devil take you, Sawbridge,” Mayhew hissed, his eyes filled with venom.

“Perhaps he already has,” Alexander replied. “But before I enter the gates of hell, I can say that I’ve done all I can—for her .”

He could at least take some consolation in that in the years to come, even if he never saw Mimi again.