“My mother.”
Two words. Two very simple words, and yet, they explained so much. His frail, delicate mother didn’t ask much of him, nor of anyone for that matter. Attending a fewtonaffairs at her request was the least he could do. Not that she attended with him, but so that he might regale her with anything interesting that failed to make it into the papers.
“I’ll raise you.” Lord Manningham-Tissinton, or Mantis, a giant of a man, scowled as he tossed in two more coins.
“Who pissed in your whisky?” Chase taunted, but Mantis only answered with a growl. Even before the viscount had gotten the right side of his face slashed, he’d been the least expressive of their bunch.
“I fold.” Stone turned to the Marquess of Greystone. “I take it Blackheart is proving to be capable in his new… position?”
Chase shook his head. The Duke of Blackheart, having lost a meaningless wager earlier that year now had to act the part of Greystone’s butler, performing all requisite duties, until the Season was over. If Blackheart failed to complete the terms, the wager mandated that Blackheart be compelled to marry a woman of Greystone’s choice.
Chase would hate to see that happen.
A number of other wagers, of course, had sprouted up out of the scenario. One of which had Chase watching closely for Blackheart to show he was weakening. If Blackheart failed, Chase would find himself in a most embarrassing situation come June.
He, Stone and Mantis had wagered with Greys and Westerley that Blackheart would succeed. The losers would be compelled to make a mad dash through the park wearing nothing but their dignity.
One side of Greys’ lips twitched. “Unfortunately, he’s currently managing my entire staff like he was born to it.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Keep quiet about it, though. If any of us blow his cover, I’ll have to forfeit. What would be the fun in that?”
“What do you take us for, Greys? A bunch of gossiping old hens?” Stone growled.
“Touchy, aren’t we tonight?” Greys murmured. “And I’m in, Chaswick. What have you got?”
Chase displayed his cards face up.
“Impressive,” Mantis observed. “But not impressive enough.” Braggart had four tens.
“I’ll make a generous donation to the foundling home on behalf of both of you,” Greys smirked and then laid his cards down one by one. Clubs—a two, three, four, five, and six.
“I hate it when you win.” Chase lifted his glass and downed what remained of his drink with a grimace. He’d become spoiled by the magnificent whiskey Westerley had provided them at his mother’s house party a few weeks before. “At least Westerley has the bollocks to give us a chance to win back our losses.”
“Had,” Stone intervened. “Now that he’s taken a wife, I foresee him spending future winnings on her. That distillery he’s having built is no doubt costing a pretty penny.”
“A whiskey making countess.” Mantis actually grinned as the four of them contemplated the brilliant luck Westerley had in landing a wife whose hobby was making scotch whiskey. “I’ll drink to that.” He lifted his glass.
“When is he returning, anyway?” Perhaps Stone would know, seeing as he had promised to look after the younger sister.
“When they were ready. And that’s a direct quote. It’s a honeymoon, after all.”
“Nice for him.” On the rare opportunities Chase could get away from London, he never quite escaped the pull of his own never-ending responsibilities. The image of three pairs of girlish eyes, very similar to his own, nagged his conscience most persistently.
The mere possibility of adding another woman into the mix had him wanting to loosen his cravat. He grimaced instead and lifted his glass for another pour.
It was only the first ball of the Season, and he was already feeling the pinch of resentment: the resentment of enduring careless gossip, the resentment of keeping up appearances, the resentment of protecting his mother’s world.
The manservant who filled his glass bowed and then presented a folded missive to Chase. “I have been instructed to deliver this to Lord Chaswick.”
Letters sent to gentlemen in the middle of a ball could only mean one of three things. Either some distant relative had died, he was being challenged to a duel, or, and the last was the most appealing, a lady was inviting him to a tryst.
“Right here, good sir.” Chase palmed the servant a coin for his troubles as he accepted the note. “Well, well, well.” No one had died, and he wouldn’t be meeting some gent at dawn.
He did nothing to hide his pleasure as he read the contents.
“Don’t tell me. That pretty little blonde I saw you with last week,” Stone guessed at the same time he shuffled the deck.
The question was an annoying one, but Chase merely held his grin. “Not at all. An older lady, one with far greater expertise. The most delightful Lady Starling.” Ironically, he never would have learned of her stimulating appetites if he hadn’t lost a bet to these gents up at Westerley Crossings.
Unease fused with lust as he contemplated his options. When they’d parted, he’d bid her farewell, giving no indication that he wished to extend their affair beyond the house party. Any sort of long-term arrangement was impossible. He hadn’t the time—even if he did have some inclination.
