Or at least a facer.
“You could have bloody well given me more information in your message, Heathcliff. You have to admit, the note you sent wasn’t to your benefit at all.” Lucas shook his head and then all but fell into a chair, his hand coming to rest on his forehead, as if fighting a headache.
Heathcliff came around from the back of the chair he’d used to create distance, an obstacle between himself and his friend, and took a seat across from him. “You didn’t tell your wife, did you?” Heathcliff asked, groaning.
“I was woken up in the dead of night by my valet, my wife right beside me. Do you think she would have ignored such a commotion, not made herself insistent on knowing the cause?” Lucas asked with little patience.
“So I gather she’s on her way here, then?” Heathcliff asked, resigned.
“I’m surprised she didn’t force me to wait for her. Although I may have implied that I would wait for her, and then . . . didn’t.”
Heathcliff winced. “You may pay for that later.”
Lucas returned the grimace. “I’ll tell her it was your fault.”
“She’ll still take it out on you,” Heathcliff assured him.
Lucas signed. “I know.”
They sat for a few moments in silence. Heathcliff’s mind continued to spin over the events of the evening, and the events that would need to take place that day.
Which reminded him . . . “The masquerade; we need to have the party, but with a different intention.”
Lucas turned to him, nodding for him to continue. “It should be a presentation of Miss Miranda—”
“Just call her Samantha. It’s not as if she’s in hiding any longer if what you say is true.”
“Are you implying that I’m not being honest?” Heathcliff asked in an impatient tone.
“No, I believe you. Never mind what I said; I’m simply already weary and the whole bloody mess is just starting. Continue.”
Heathcliff nodded, deciding to let the remark go by. Heaven only knew Lucas had done the same for him countless times. He paused to think where he’d left off before Lucas interrupted him.
“You were talking about a presentation,” Lucas supplied helpfully.
“Ah, yes. It should be a presentation of my wife. That way we can begin the circulation of the news.”
Lucas nodded. “That’s probably for the best. But you do know we’ll have to make a trip to London regardless, just to make everything official.”
Heathcliff nodded. “We would have to return shortly anyway. Ramsey has been left quite alone with the whole bloody mess of the club, and he’s probably in need of a little assistance.”
“Ha, that’s laughable,” Lucas remarked, chuckling dryly. “He’s in his element. The man loves to control things. It feeds his soul. Without us there, he can keep the ribbons tight to his chest and drive the whole lot however he wishes.”
Heathcliff gave a shrug. “You’re right.”
“You always did think highly of your role in the club,” Lucas remarked, his grin wide and teasing.
Heathcliff arched a brow. “I’m the only one willing to get his hands dirty.”
“I take umbrage at that statement, sir.” Lucas feigned offense.
“You’ll stay far from any scandal now. You’re married, proper and surely about to be accepted into the bosom of society.”
Lucas eyed him, watching expectantly, as if Heathcliff were missing something obvious and humorous.
Heathcliff frowned.
“Calling the kettle a bit black, are we? Who is about to be married, and proper—”
