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S hillington’s Gentlemen’s Club could get a little rowdy of an evening.

Nicknamed “The King’s Shilling” because it was largely frequented by His Majesty’s officers, it had its share of gentlemen who did not deserve the nomenclature.

Unlike other gentlemen’s clubs, Shillington’s offered some leeway to its members, knowing these were men who served their country and might want to drink to forget about what they had seen or were about to endure.

It was therefore the natural choice for people like Lieutenant Richard Foyle, who were overfond of their tipple.

William had learned to steer clear of the tables where such men played cards or dice.

They were prone to drunken outbursts, accusing fellow players of cheating.

And William was in no mood for a scene. He enjoyed the camaraderie at the club, especially now that his prospects in love were so uninspiring.

But he did not wish to dwell upon it. That was exactly why he was at Shillington’s.

He had spotted Foyle almost immediately upon entering and steered a wide berth around the game of hazards, which was Foyle’s favorite.

Instead, William sat himself down at a table of whist players, waiting for a chance to enter the game.

He did not gamble much these days. His earnings were rather pitiful, and he still relied heavily upon his father’s allowance.

Six months ago, this would not have bothered him.

He would have been among the louder members of the club, if he had been in Munro then.

And his father’s money would have carelessly departed from his purse.

Now, his youthful exuberance somewhat stilled by his maturing insights—not to mention the sobering thought of imminent war—William was simply happy for an evening of distraction sans the usual carousing for which he had been known.

Ah, but how much he would have rather had the distraction of Miss Lockhart’s company!

At the Macraes’ ball, she had violently expressed her dismay at the thought of him endangering himself in battle. The way she cared, without fear of speaking her truth, deeply moved him. Under her reserved exterior beat a passionate heart. She really was an excellent friend.

If she had been a man, they could have written each other. It would have given him great comfort when England’s shores were far away and the smell of death and gunpowder hung in the air.

Yet, if she had been a man, he would not desire her so.

He would not want to trace the curve of her chin with the back of his fingers, or lean in slowly, her eyes closing in anticipation, as he pressed his lips against the softness of hers.

The mere thought prickled his skin into gooseflesh, the thrill of their imagined touch rushing through his blood.

“I’m done,” said the gentleman in the seat next to William’s. “You may take my place if you wish.”

William cleared his throat. The sensation of Miss Lockhart’s nearness, though not a reality, was hard to release. “Ahem, thank you. What is the starting bet?”

“A shilling, as always.” The man rose to leave.

“Of course. Stupid of me,” muttered William. It was tradition at Shillington’s to place its namesake as the first bet. But William’s mind had been on other things.

A strong note of liquor wafted over him as the seat to his right was filled with the pungent body of a newcomer. “Count me in,” slurred the man, tossing a shilling onto the table.

William hardly needed to turn his head to know who it was.

Richard Foyle bent over the dark-green cloth to retrieve the cards that had been dealt him.

He eyed them suspiciously, his head bobbing forward and back as he tried to tried to focus on his hand.

The man was deep into the bottle—that much was clear.

William would have left at once, but he had already entered the round and it would have been bad form to quit before it was done.

At least Foyle was not his partner for the game. William felt sorry for the gentleman whose bad luck it was to risk his money with the lieutenant as his playing mate.

At first, the game proceeded quietly, Richard Foyle using much of his concentration to follow the pace of the play. It did not take long, however, for the soaked fellow to realize who was beside him and for a memory to bubble up from his addled brain.

“Cole,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you.” He paused, his thoughts likely taking their time to assemble. “You were at the Macraes’,” he finally said.

“I was,” William replied warily.

“There was that girl. Hair as pale as a woman’s ti…”

“Watch your tongue.” Cole cut him off. “That is no way to speak of a lady.”

“She won’t be such a lady when I’m through with her.” The vulgar fellow laughed throatily.

William’s hackles rose. “You are not to go anywhere near her,” he snarled.

“Soft on her, are you? All doe-eyed for the little virgin.” Foyle gave a lascivious smile that was more wolf than man.

“How I feel is none of your business.” William spoke through gritted teeth. “And Miss Lockhart is not to be toyed with,” he warned.

“Ah, yes, Miss Lockhart. That was the name.” Richard Foyle sat back and pulled a cigar from his top pocket.

“Thank you for reminding me. That was the very thing I wanted to ask.” He leaned to the side and a footman stepped forward to light his tobacco.

Foyle puffed a few times, then licked his lips.

“It should be simple enough to inquire about Miss Lockhart’s movements.

And a servant can always be bribed to leave her alone for half an hour… ”

“You disgust me!” William growled, standing up. “You have no right to be in a club for gentlemen. I could have you blackballed for such talk.”

“Oh, do sit down, Cole. From what I’ve heard, you’re no altar boy yourself.”

William was revulsed to be compared to this wretched being. “We are nothing alike,” he hissed. “I have never forced my attentions on anyone. Nor have I gone beyond a harmless flirtation. What you are suggesting is foul to even consider. I would not even have a paid wench treated thus.”

“And what would you know of paid wenches, hey, Cole? There is nothing I want that money can’t buy.”

William pulled his chair back. “Your money cannot protect you from the law. You lay so much as a finger on Miss Lockhart, and I will see to it that you are strung up by your lecherous neck!”

“You witless sap.” Foyle smiled with the patience of one who believes he has the advantage. “My father has the magistrate in his pocket, and I have carte blanche in Munro.” He flicked cigar ash onto the floor.

By now, William was shaking with rage. If he didn’t remove himself this instant, he was going to wring Foyle’s neck himself.

With his last ounce of self-control, he turned to the other whist players and bowed his head.

“I apologize, gentlemen. I will have to take my leave at once. The air does not agree with me.” With a final glare at Lieutenant Foyle, William strode from the room, through the foyer, and into the darkness of the street beyond.

He stopped and sucked in lungsful of cool, night air until the buzzing in his brain began to subside.

“Cole, you blackguard!” came the slurring voice of Foyle from the top of the club’s steps. “It’s bad form to quit in the middle of a round! I had money on that game!”

“What are you talking about?” William called up to him. “We’d barely started. The stakes had not even been raised.”

But Richard Foyle continued down the steps toward him, taking some two at a time as his feet fumbled beneath him.

He came to a clownish stop before William, arms and legs flailing to right him.

“I say!” he cried, seemingly startled at the suddenness of his descent.

He stood a moment, swaying, then belched unabashedly.

“That’s better.” He grinned. “Be a good fellow and help me back up those damnable stairs. Then you can buy me a drink. There’s a good chap. ”

“I won’t lift a finger for you until you apologize for your vile insinuations toward Miss Lockhart,” William insisted.

“I didn’t take you for a Puritan.” Foyle scoffed. He fished about near his belt and pulled out a hip flask, removed the stopper, and prepared to take a swig.

The flask flew from his hand.

“What the devil…?”

“Not another drop until you apologize!” William demanded.

“What for?” sneered Foyle. “Because I want little Miss Lockhart the same way you do? Only, I’m man enough to say it.”

“You filth !” cried William. He balled his hand into a fist and drew his arm back, ready to teach the cur a lesson.

“Lieutenant Cole, stand at ease, sir!” came the stern voice of Captain Larson.

Despite being in his evening dress, William obeyed instinctively.

“Let’s not do anything ill-considered that I would have to report you for,” Larson continued, though rather less gruffly.

“I’m sorry, sir. Thank you, sir.” William was relieved.

Another moment and he would have struck Foyle.

Hard. Not that the man didn’t deserve it, and more, but it would not have stopped his repulsive behavior in future.

William, however, would have paid the price, anything from a reprimand or a flogging to his commission, even his freedom.

It would all depend on how many friends Foyle’s father had to influence the outcome.

“He was going to hit me!” complained Foyle. “You saw that. He should be punished!”

Captain Larson spun around on his heel and shoved a furious finger in Foyle’s face. “No doubt you had it coming. Look at you. You’re a disgrace!

“You can’t speak to me that way! I’m not in uniform. My father shall hear of this.”