Julius knew the bickering could go on for ages. He raised a hand. “Gentlemen. And I use that term only in its strictest sense. Why have you come here?”
Summerset turned towards him, all wide-eyed innocence, a look that was pure buggering hogwash but always seemed to have women dropping their pantalets. “Why, because you sent for us. Your most trusted friends. Your closest advisors. Your—”
“I sent a letter stating I had need of your services in the near future,” Julius interrupted. “Not to come bother me this evening.”
Sutton and Summerset shared a look. A look Julius remembered all too well. When he’d arrived back in England after his imprisonment in the Japanese Empire, it had been his constant companion. Each of his friends had worn it, each man tip-toeing around Julius like he’d shatter into a thousand pieces if they said the wrong thing. Made the wrong move. They hadn’t known if Julius’s extended imprisonment had weakened his mind.
Julius hadn’t known, either.
Grabbing a towel, he wiped the sweat from his bare chest and strode to the chair where his coat and shirt lay folded. He fought against the memories, held them at bay through sheer force of will. Even after all these years, he sometimes still forgot where he was, his mind trapped back in that prison.
Like when he almost beat an opponent to a bloody pulp in a friendly sparring match.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice gruff. He gripped the ends of the towel and threw it over his head to pull against his neck.
“We were at The Black Rose last night.” Sutton crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Madame Rose said we just missed you.”
Fingers tightening on the cloth, Julius raised an eyebrow. “And what else did she tell you?”
Summerset waved his handkerchief through the air. “Nothing that would be embarrassing to you in the least. Just a conversation she had with sweet Lucy. She, of course, didn’t tell us that you fled the club. That you left a woman wet and wanting. That never came up in conversation.”
A lick of anger flared before sputtering out. The snide condescension in his friend’s voice masked true concern. It was unheard of for Julius to abandon a rope scene. And any act out of the ordinary would be noticed by his friends. Wondered at. Worried over. Like he was a damn hothouse flower, wilting under the smallest bit of heat.
“It’s sad when men get to that age where they can no longer perform,” Summerset said to Sutton. “Why, if I could no longer please a woman—”
“You’ve never pleased a woman,” Julius growled. “I don’t think you can start now.” He chugged down more water, his mind turning to the last woman he’d pleased. The one woman that could cost him a friendship if her brother-in-law discovered just what Julius had done to her. How much more he wanted to do.
Bloody hell, she liked to be tied up. How was he to resist her now?
But she was the hothouse flower. Yes, she had deep roots, had survived what no person should have to endure, but she was breakable. Delicate. And she needed a man much better than he.
“Was your usual room taken?” Sutton asked. He laid a hand on Julius’s shoulder. “Did you have to use one of the smaller ones?”
Julius shrugged him off. “I was fine. The woman merely didn’t interest me. And there is nothing wrong with my performance.” He needed to get that out there. Damn friends. If they’d heard Amanda moaning last night, they’d be in no doubt as to just how well he performed. But then he’d have to rip their ears off. Her moans were only for his hearing.
And the man she chose for her next lover. His stomach twisted, but he ignored it.
Summerset tossed himself down into a vacant chair and crossed one leg over the other. He bobbed an ivory leather boot up and down. “I must sit. A woman, bound before you, restrained just so you could take your pleasure, didn’t interest you? Has the earth begun to spin in the opposite direction? Are the French now our bosom friends?”
Sutton dropped down on a chair next to him. “Why does it take you a hundred words to say what needs only a few? And leave the man alone. If a Rose doxy no longer holds his interest, that is no one’s business but his own.” He shifted about, trying to settle comfortably on the narrow seat. “No matter how unusual that lack of interest might be. Now, why have you sent for us?”
“I didn’t—” Julius bit his retort off. It didn’t matter what he said to his friends. They’d still be arseholes. Dragging a chair around to face them, he sat. “I’ve been assigned another task by our mutual friend.” He glanced around, but no one was close, and the sound of fists pounding into flesh ensured no one would overhear their conversation.
“I grow tired of our mutual friend and his requests.” Sutton rested his elbows on his knees. “Do either of you sometimes wish that we were typical swells, where our biggest concerns were managing our country estates and producing an heir?”
Summerset’s mouth opened and closed. He blinked and drew his fair brow down low. “Why would you wish to rusticate on a country estate when London provides so many more diversions?” He tugged on the hem of his waistcoat. “No, I am quite thankful to our friend for relieving us from a life of boredom.”
“Of course, you are,” Sutton muttered. He slowly straightened his muscular body. “What is the task this time?”
Julius told them of the Widow Westmont, of Liverpool’s worry over a larger blackmail ring.
Summerset examined his nails. “Did Liverpool say who else had been blackmailed?”
“When does Liverpool ever say more than he needs to?” Julius scanned the large room, cataloging every man he was acquainted with, and every man he was not.
Sutton leaned forward, his chair creaking. “But you have a name.”
“How …?”
