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Yes, she wished to be done with the gossips’ whisperings, and if demure behaviour would pacify them, she would give it her best attempt.

She would not lose her inherent spirit, of course—not forever—but a small display of meekness might serve as a shield against further scandal.

After all, even her sisters had said she need only do so for a few weeks.

Freddy had always found a certain comfort in the measured hush and unchanging traditions of White’s.

Though the venerable walls of that distinguished gentleman’s club could hardly be called quiet—there was ever the low crackle of the fire upon the hearth, the clink of glasses meeting in revelry, and the murmurs of men congratulating, disputing, and occasionally boasting in spirited, undercut tones—this particular evening carried with it a charge most unusual.

At half-past nine, Freddy entered the establishment and handed his hat and coat to the major-domo who hovered near the door, as discreet as any well-trained retainer must be in this sanctum of male discourse.

He bowed and disappeared into the gloom of the entry, leaving Freddy to proceed into the main room, where his gaze swept over a scene as familiar to him as the face of a dear old friend.

The morning room boasted tall windows that by daylight afforded a handsome view of St. James’s Street.

At this hour, heavy curtains had been discreetly pulled, and the flickering sconces cast a discreet glow upon panelled walls.

A faint haze of pipe tobacco, with the merest tang of brandy seemed to envelop the room.

All about, members reclined upon chairs of worn leather, heads bowed together in conspiratorial chatter or games of cards.

Freddy found his friends in a corner arrangement, surrounding a low table upon which sat half-empty glasses of brandy. Westwood, Rotham, Montford, and Stuart were already gathered, and the hush that fell as he drew near gave testament that their conversation was private.

“Cunningham.” Westwood gestured him nearer, beckoning with a hand upon which he wore an old signet ring, scuffed from decades of use. “This is a most timely arrival. We were but just discussing?—”

“Miss Joy.” Rotham cut in with a certain dryness to his tone. “Though we had not the presence of mind, perhaps, to include you in the initial speculation, Freddy. In truth, we did not think you would care to hear the details of her potential suitors, or so-called suitors.”

Freddy sank into an old leather armchair with the weariness of a man who expected trouble from the very start.

“Why should I not want to hear about Joy? I gather her name is upon everyone’s lips tonight.

I have heard enough whispers from the hall to suspect the talk has not subsided.

I have yet to look at the betting books, but I do not doubt I will find something to dislike. ”

Stuart leaned forward, swirling his brandy in an indolent manner.

“They say St. John has staked his claim—so brazenly one might think he had purchased a new horse or invested in a shipping concern. One could scarcely step foot in here without hearing the tale. Miss Joy is spoken for, St. John’s troth is all but declared, and to top it all there is a rumour about a handsome increase in her dowry.

An increase so dramatic, fortune hunters from Land’s End to John o’ Groats shall come galloping. ”

“Naturally rumours swirl in the clubs.” Freddy waved his hand in dismissal as a fresh glass of brandy was placed before him.

Montford, ignoring Freddy’s remark, laced his fingers and offered an opinion. “But are we quite sure Joy welcomes his suit?”

“A fair question, Monty. I can attest to St. John’s interest, however.

He sent Joy a bouquet the size of my entrance hall, and the sisters were all agog at his note.

It was hardly one to discourage his suit.

It would surprise me not a whit if he has serious intentions.

Unless—” Here Westwood paused, lowering his voice.

“He means to amuse himself. Yet if that is so, Joy shall be the chief sufferer, and no gentleman would permit that.”

Stuart snorted. “Gentleman? There are but a handful of true gentlemen in Town, and I fear St. John may not entirely exemplify the breed.”

“Do you know ill of him?” Westwood asked.

“He is a soldier,” Stuart answered, as if that explained all.

Freddy’s jaw tightened at the mere mention of Joy in the same breath as ill use.

“If he trifles with her, I shall have something to say about it,” he stated, setting his glass down with more force than he intended.

The resulting rattle had them all glancing at him in curiosity.

Freddy cleared his throat, attempting a measure of composure.

“I only mean that if a man intends a passing fancy, he need not fix his fancy upon Miss Joy. She deserves better—a serious suitor, a man who will let her be as she is, not stifle her, nor encourage foolishness which might lead to further scandal.”

There was a pause, the other gentlemen studying Freddy with various shades of amusement or puzzlement.

He schooled his features so they might not guess the turmoil within.

Indeed, Joy was a friend—an especially dear one.

He could hardly brook the thought of her name being bandied about the gossip mills of Town as though she were fair game for every rake with a polished boot and a sleek coat.

“In any case,” Westwood said at last, “the pressing question is how news of her dowry soared so high. I made but a comment yesterday—yet now the entire membership of White’s speaks of nothing else.”

Montford shrugged. “One must never underestimate the speed with which gossip travels, Westwood. One may as well attempt to hold water in one’s hands as keep a secret from the wags of the ton .”

Rotham, who was the most cynical of the group, raised a brow. “Servants. It is always the servants, my friends.”

Freddy stifled a groan. “A sure enticement for those creatures who call themselves gentlemen but exist solely to chase a fortune. The last thing Joy needs is such fortune-hunting scoundrels on her doorstep, wheedling invitations to tea, pestering her, pressing their hapless suits upon her until she cannot tell one slippery-haired courtier from the next.”

Stuart laughed. “I do believe our dear Cunningham is quite riled over this. Is there something you wish to share?”

Had the light in the room been brighter, perhaps they all might have seen Freddy’s momentary flush. He swallowed, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “I wish only to see Joy contented in an arrangement of her own choosing. You know I esteem her with the warm regard of a dear friend.”

“Of course,” Rotham murmured with a knowing arch of his brow. “But come, the matter of St. John remains. Could there be sincerity in his suit beyond amusement?”

“I sincerely hope so,” Westwood replied, scowling as he sipped his brandy. “A friend or two I trust well have spoken in St. John’s favour—he is not known to be an unrepentant rake. But if he is to encourage her wildness, then…” He left the consequences unspoken.

“Indeed,” Freddy said, rather briskly. “St. John may not be a blackguard, but if he is uncertain of his intentions, he could do harm. Joy…is not one to accept caution with grace as she loves the lure of adventure. And if she is led to believe the man thoroughly admires her—then he abandons her at her most vulnerable—” He stopped, the image too disturbing for him to articulate further.

He instead took refuge in the warm comfort of brandy, letting the rich taste of it roll over his tongue.

A faint silence fell over them, broken only by the clink of a decanter as a footman refilled glasses.

A cluster of gentlemen nearby were reading the betting book, scribbling wagers as though the apocalypse itself could be staved off by a timely bet on the next political scandal or upcoming horse race.

Somewhere across the room, a hush of laughter passed in little waves.

It was that sort of evening at White’s, where half the men seemed to live for wagers and the other half thrived on hearing them.

Westwood leaned forward. “As the person providing Joy’s dowry, who is taking bets on it? I wonder if they might list the precise sum, or if they are speculating upon how many hundreds or thousands more she might be worth than previously thought.”

Montford snorted a short laugh. “I glimpsed at the betting book as I came in. There are indeed a few lines scribbled there—some wag is offering five to one odds that she surpasses Lady Eugenia Knight’s portion, and eight to one that you have settled upon her an estate in Shropshire.

Though it is also rumoured that a house in Bath is said to be part of the settlement as well. ”

Freddy nearly choked on his brandy. “This is absurd. Joy, who would sooner take a horsewhip to Bath than live in that watery city? She cares nothing for the amusements of those mildewed Pump Rooms. Doubtless it is all nonsense.”

“Oh, nonsense indeed,” Westwood agreed calmly, “because there are no properties in Shropshire or Bath.”

“Ah.” They liked to tease Freddy, and normally he did not mind, but could not disguise his irritation with Joy being such an object of amusement.

“If this turns Joy’s Season into a gauntlet of fortune hunters, I shall hold all of you personally responsible.

” That remark drew a chorus of half-ironic protests.

“Us?” Westwood coughed. “You propose to hold me personally liable for my offhand remark, made quite inadvertently, and quite without intention that it be repeated? Cunningham, you are turned tyrant.”

“He is,” Montford agreed with a faint grin, “but a well-meaning one, I believe.”

Freddy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He had not meant to sound so heated, but anxiety prickled at him in a way he could hardly name.

Joy was her own person—vivacious, adventurous, impossible to contain.

The notion of her heart being trifled with by a man who might not appreciate all that she was…

that notion roused in Freddy an uncomfortable mixture of protectiveness and indignation.

For a moment each gentleman was quiet, turning over the matter in his mind.

Only Stuart, who had an adventurous wife himself, ventured a small reflection.

“I do believe that Joy’s best chance of happiness, if she does not choose St. John, lies with a man who admires her high-spiritedness—who would never scold her for an unladylike impulse.

One who might even share her enthusiasm for those pursuits Society deems improper. She is rare, is she not?”

“Hear, hear,” they all agreed and raised their glasses to Joy, but leaving Freddy feeling completely unsettled inside.