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" Y ou look as though you're trying to decide whether to drink that or throw it at the wall."

Oliver did not look up. He kept his gaze fixed on the whisky glass resting between his palms, as if it were the only steady point left in the room. Alexander sighed, the scrape of a chair sliding back punctuating the hush. He settled across from him, folding his hands.

"Laurence asked me to come," he went on, "He said you've been here every evening this week."

Oliver's mouth twitched faintly. "Laurence has always been inclined to take too much interest in other people's misfortunes."

"He's not wrong to be concerned."

"I'm not causing trouble."

"No," Alexander agreed, glancing around the familiar place, "Just sitting here like a man waiting for judgment."

"Perhaps I am."

"It's strange," Alexander said finally. "Owning this place used to feel like an obligation but I feel at ease visiting it now that the new owner is Laurence. He's made it…better somehow."

"It suits him," Oliver murmured, still not lifting his head.

"It does." Alexander's gaze didn't waver. "You, on the other hand, this doesn't suit you in the least. He said you've been coming nearly every evening, though you rarely speak to anyone."

"I prefer the quiet."

"He sounded concerned."

That pulled a hollow laugh from Oliver's throat. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Well, he needn't be. I am not drunk. I am not making a spectacle of myself. He will not lose any members on my account."

"No one said you were a spectacle. But you've been sitting here like a man waiting for a summons to the gallows," Alexander regarded him for a moment in silence.

"If that is meant to cheer me, I'm afraid you will have to try harder," Oliver's hand tightened around the glass.

A servant passed near their table, offering fresh cigars. Alexander declined with a shake of his head. When the man had moved on, Alexander leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees to match Oliver's posture.

"Talk to me," he said quietly.

"There is nothing to say."

"You've been absent all week," Alexander continued. "You have not replied to my letters. And now you sit here, alone, staring at your whisky as though you intend to drown in it without ever taking a sip."

"Must you catalogue my failings like an inventory?" Oliver's jaw worked.

"If you would prefer, I can simply carry you home and spare us both the civility."

He did not open his eyes.

"Do as you like."

Alexander was silent again, and in that pause, Oliver felt the true weight of his own feelings press down on him. Indeed, he was in a sour mood. How could he not be, considering that he only had an empty home to return to.

"Is it about her?"

"You are not obliged to do this," Oliver said. "Truly, we can do without this conversation."

"You are not yourself, Oliver. You have never been a man to sulk in corners."

"I am not sulking," he muttered.

"No?" Alexander's brows lifted faintly. "What is this, then?"

He met Alexander's gaze and felt something in his chest twist painfully.

"I don't know what it is," he admitted. His voice was low, but the words felt like defeat. "I only know that she is gone, and I cannot decide whether I am relieved or…"

"Or what?"

"Or ruined," he muttered quietly. Alexander seemed to have not heard him, however, which in itself came as a relief. Oliver was not yet ready to speak about his feelings so candidly, especially when he himself did not know what to make of them.

"You know, most men who take refuge in clubs at all hours do eventually emerge again," Alexander said.

Oliver did not glance up.

"If you must know, Laurence was quite insistent that someone collect you. He worries about the reputation of his establishment," he continued.

"That sounds like Laurence," Oliver murmured. "Always concerned that the atmosphere remain unblemished by any sign of actual feeling."

"Or by a duke staring at a glass so intently one fears it may burst into flame."

"As I have told you already, you need not trouble yourself."

"Yes, well, it is rather too late for that," Alexander admitted. "Are you certain you do not wish to speak about it?"

"I have already made myself very clear," Oliver repeated.

A gentleman near the window discreetly lifted his newspaper higher to avoid appearing to eavesdrop.

"Do you intend to remain here all night?" Alexander asked again.

"I haven't decided."

"Then allow me to assist you in deciding. You will come home."

"And if I decline?"

Alexander's expression did not change. "Then I shall be forced to sit here with you until the staff begin stacking chairs on the tables."

"You always did have a gift for stubbornness." A faint huff of amusement escaped Oliver despite himself.

"I prefer to think of it as loyalty," Alexander said lightly. "Come now. There is no dignity in brooding in public when you can do so quite as effectively in your own house."

Oliver let out a breath and at last set down the untouched glass.

"If you are determined to remove me, I suppose I cannot prevent it."

"No," Alexander agreed pleasantly. "You really can't."

He rose and extended a hand, more in courtesy than necessity. Oliver ignored it, but stood nonetheless. As they stepped out, Oliver drew his coat more closely around him.

"You will report to Laurence that I have been safely conveyed?"

"I expect he will extract the confession himself," Alexander said. "He does so enjoy knowing how things end."

"Then let us not keep him in suspense."

They descended the steps together, neither man in any particular hurry. When they reached the waiting carriage, Alexander paused, his hand on the door.

"For what it is worth," he said more quietly, "no one expects you to pretend you are untroubled."

"I am quite aware."

"Yes." Alexander inclined his head. "But you needn't be quite so intent on proving it."

Oliver did not reply. He only climbed into the carriage and looked straight ahead, as though any further conversation would be an indulgence he could not afford.

Alexander joined him, shutting the door with a click. And as the carriage began to roll down the street, neither man spoke again. But there was a kind of relief in the silence A proof that no matter how far one might drift, there was always someone willing to come and fetch you home.