Robert lifted his blade and swung it across at Lucien.
Shifting his weight, the earl blocked the move and in the same fluid motion flattened the viscount’s rapier against the display table. “So it is. Point taken.”
With a frown, Robert released his grip on the weapon, leaving it on the counter. “Don’t want to play today, eh? You might have said so.” He rubbed his knuckles where they’d collided with the hard wood.
Lucien returned the rapier to its ebony scabbard and tossed it to Daubner. “You didn’t ask.”
The viscount eyed him for a moment, then swiped a lock of wheat-colored hair back from his forehead. “Lost another governess, did you?”
Immediately an image of the turquoise-eyed goddess who kept the devil spawn company in his breakfast room banished everything else from Lucien’s mind. “Found another one,” he said brusquely. “Accompany me to Boodle’s for luncheon.”
Daubner cleared his throat.
“You, too, Daubner.”
“Ah. Splendid.”
Belton fell into step beside him as they left Wallace’s shop, while Daubner brought up the rear. Pall Mall was still fairly uncrowded, as were the clubs lining the way, but none of Mayfair would remain that way for much longer. Once the Season began in earnest, getting a good table and competent service would become a contest of wealth and skill. It was a contest he generally won.
“Are you still going to Calvert’s tonight?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Robert looked at him, brown eyes quizzical. “What happened to ‘anything to escape that damned harpies’ nest’?”
Miss Gallant had happened—though Lucien wasn’t about to reveal that. Certainly he lusted after her; spending an evening away would hardly affect that one way or the other. But at the moment she held more interest for him than Calvert’s overexplored debaucheries. “Afraid they won’t let a pup like you in without me?”
“You are my calling card to the dregs of London,” the viscount agreed with a faint smile. “Are you going, Daubner?”
“Lady Daubner would have my head if I made an appearance at Calvert’s,” the stout man said grimly.
“Ifshe found out,” Lucien supplied. “Don’t tell her.”
Daubner jabbed a finger into Lucien’s shoulder blade. “Easy to tell you ain’t married, Kilcairn. You don’t need to tell the ladies; they just know.”
The earl shrugged, annoyed at the abuse to his shoulder and to his dark blue morning coat. “What does that matter?”
“What does what—”
“When are you going to unveil them?” Belton interrupted, as Lucien narrowed his eyes.
“Unveil whom?” he asked, lengthening his stride. Let Daubner work for his meal; it would do the sot good, anyway. The day he let a female dictate how he lived his life would be the last day he took a breath, because he’d throw himself off the Tower Bridge if it ever happened.
“Unveil Mrs. and Miss Delacroix. Not that you’ve spoken of them beyond hurling a few curses, but over the past few days you’ve seemed even more annoyed than previously.”
“When I’m annoyed,” Lucien said, looking sideways at his companion, “you’ll know it.”
“You can’t deny, though, that everyone’s going to want to set eyes on Kilcairn’s cousin. Lucifer’s only living relation and all that.”
Before Rose Delacroix saw the light of Mayfair’s chandeliers, Miss Gallant would instill manners, grace, and style in her. He had no intention of displaying his pink-flamingo cousin to the peerage now. After he did, though, and once the brat was married off, he could go about his own search—and hopefully produce an heir of his own before he expired from the hellish strain of marriage.
Lucien suppressed a shudder. “Learn to live with disappointment,” he suggested, starting up the shallow steps to Boodles. “I’ll unveil her when I’m ready to do so.”
“Selfish bastard,” the viscount muttered.
“Compliments will get you nowhere.”
Alexandra sat straight-backed in one of Lord Kilcairn’s comfortable morning room chairs and wondered whether the smile pasted on her face looked as stiff as it had begun to feel. Draped on the chaise longue across from her, a froth of blankets and pillows practically smothering her and making her look like a huge orange-haired ball of fluff, Mrs. Fiona Delacroix launched into the second half hour of her diatribe on the state of modern society.
