White's Gentlemen's Club occupied a building on St. James's Street that reeked of old money and older prejudices. Gregory climbed the steps with the same measured pace he had once used approaching enemy positions—alert, assessing, ready for whatever came next.
The doorman took one look at his card and stepped aside without comment.
Inside, the air smelled of tobacco, brandy, and the particular staleness that came from rooms where the same men had sat in the same chairs for decades. Dark wood paneling absorbed what little light came through the heavily curtained windows. Leather chairs clustered around tables where gentlemen bent over newspapers or played cards with the intensity of men who had nothing better to occupy their time.
Several heads turned as Gregory entered. A few nods of acknowledgment. More than a few curious stares.
And from the corner near the fireplace, poorly concealed laughter.
Gregory's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. He had dealt with worse than aristocratic mockery. Had survived actual warfare, not the drawing-room variety these men probably considered conflict.
"Your Grace." The club steward approached, his face carefully blank. "Welcome to White's. Might I show you to a seat?"
"That will not be necessary," Gregory said. "I am capable of finding my own chair."
He moved toward an empty wingback near the window, deliberately ignoring the group by the fireplace. But their voices carried in the quiet room, pitched just loud enough to be overheard while maintaining plausible deniability.
"—heard he spent fifteen years in the army. Can you imagine? A duke's heir playing at soldier."
"Not playing, surely. I heard he actually worked his way up through the ranks. Like a common?—"
"Gentleman's profession, of course. Though one does wonder why he felt the need to prove anything. Unless he was not entirely certain of his inheritance?"
More laughter, quickly stifled but unmistakable.
Gregory's hand tightened on the back of the chair he had been about to claim. He recognized the tactic—had seen it employed by insecure officers attempting to establish dominance over new arrivals. The difference was that in the military, such behavior could get a man killed. Here, it was apparently considered sport.
He turned slowly, his gaze settling on the group by the fireplace. Five young men, none older than five-and-twenty, all dressed in the elaborate fashion currently favored by London's idle rich. Too much lace at the cuffs. Waistcoats embroidered with thread that probably cost more than his soldiers' annual wages.
"Gentlemen," Gregory said, his voice low and carrying. "If you have something to say, I suggest you say it directly. I have never been fond of cowards who hide behind whispers."
The room fell silent.
One of the young lords—a sandy-haired man with a weak chin and too much pomade—stood with exaggerated slowness. "I am certain I do not know what you mean, Your Grace. We were merely discussing?—"
"You were discussing my military service as though it was some amusing eccentricity rather than fifteen years spent defending the very country that allows you to sit here in silk waistcoats and mock your betters."
The young lord's face flushed. "Your betters? You forget yourself. My family?—"
"Your family did what, exactly?" Gregory took a step closer. "Bought you a commission? Sent you to fight? Or did they keep you safe in London while other men bled and died?"
"How dare you?—"
"I dare," Gregory said quietly, "because I earned the right. I served without using my courtesy title. Rose through the ranks on merit, not family connections. I commanded men in battle, not from the safety of a London club. And I have killed more men than you have likely ever met."
He moved closer still, until he stood directly before the young lord. The man tried to hold his ground, but Gregory saw the fear in his eyes.
"So when you whisper about me," Gregory continued, his voice dropping even lower, "when you question my right to be here or suggest I am somehow less than you because I chose to serve rather than idle?—"
His hand shot out, faster than the young lord could react. He gripped the man's throat—not hard enough to truly hurt, but firm enough to make his point devastatingly clear.
"—you should remember that I know precisely how much pressure it takes to crush a man's windpipe. And that unlike you, I do not make empty threats."
The young lord's eyes went wide. His hands came up instinctively, scrabbling at Gregory's wrist, but Gregory's grip did not waver.
"Do we understand each other?" Gregory asked, his tone conversational despite the violence of the moment.
The young lord managed a strangled sound that might have been agreement.
