Whatever fears Mrs. Montrose had experienced when she examined the doll, she’d completely set aside. Impressive, really. The actions of a master deceiver? Someone who hid oceans of experience behind a polished exterior...rather like himself?
Or something else?
And why was he so consumed by the woman in the first place? Her presence disturbedsomethinglong buried. Butwhatandwhy, he could not answer.
He tore his gaze away before heading toward a separate set of external doors that led to Ash’s study.
“Ah, Hurtheven.” Ash cast him a sardonic glance from his large, overstuffed leather chair. He did not rise. “You deigned to join us.”
“Was I keeping you from something?” he queried.
“Nothing but our wives,” Chev answered.
Hurtheven glanced heavenward. “Must you both constantly remind me of your states of wedded bliss?”
Ash set aside his pipe. “Bliss that could be yours with a simple parson’s visit.”
“Ah, but, first, I must find a woman,” Hurtheven pointed out.
“There’s the rub,” quoted Chev.
“Noteveryonecan be Alicia and Pen.” Hurtheven took a seat and stretched out his legs. “Anyway, I’ve no intention to marry at present. I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with me as I am.”
“An unmitigated ass?” Chev suggested.
Hurtheven folded his arms behind his head and grinned. “I do my best.”
Ash chuckled. “It is good to have you back, Hurtheven.” He poured three whiskies from the decanter set beside him. “Shall we officially call the council to order?”
“That’s why we’re here.” Chev’s old injury—the loss of his right hand just past his elbow—obliged him to accept his drink with his left.
Hurtheven toasted Ash. “To you, Hades.”
“To you, Poseidon,” Ash gestured toward Chev.
“And to you, our dear, wandering Zeus.” Chev clinked his glass Hurtheven.
Amber liquid burned a line of fiery comfort down Hurtheven’s throat. All the strange sensations engendered by the nursemaid receded. Thought-soothing warmth tided through his veins.
Thisis what he needed. The restorative company of men.
“Eta, Rho, Zeta.” Chev snorted.
“What mad boys we were.” Ash leaned back, hooked a knee over the arm of his chair and swung his foot. “Coming up with a society. Tattooing our combined crests on our ankles.”
“Prescient, that.” Hurtheven pointed at Chev’s leg. “Chev’s tattoo is the sole reason I was called to identify him when he washed ashore.”
“A good thing, too.” Chev replied. “Else those scoundrels who found me might have thrown me back.”
Hurtheven recalled the show he’d put on that evening several years past—all confidence and command when, inside, he’d been shocked and reeling to find Chev alive but emaciated, weather-worn, and scarred. Hurtheven had taken charge, of course, improvising a plan that untangled Chev from a possible court martial and, eventually, reunited him with Penelope.
“To a better future.” Ash jiggled his glass.
“Hear, Hear.” Chev drank. “And to bonds born of the distant past.”
“How long since we came up with the idea for a secret society?” Ash asked.
“Twenty-five years.” Hurtheven answered.
