Louisa laughed. “This whole situation is absurd.”
“I know.” Fletcher reached over and pushed a strand of hair behind Louisa’s hair. “We will figure it out, okay? I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve that I hope will work. I was kidding about needing to raise armies, but I am just saying, if that’s what it takes, when all other options are exhausted, I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, Fletcher. I love you.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you, too.”
* * *
Fletcher found Rotherfeld at one of the lesser gentlemen’s clubs. It took most of a day of investigating where Rotherfeld had memberships before he made this discovery. The man couldn’t have just spent his evenings at White’s; that would have been too easy. And Rotherfeld had apparently been making the rounds—his regular club was still under renovation—so it had been a real challenge to track him down. Fletcher finally got a break when one of Beresford’s friends happened to know where Rotherfeld had been spending his evenings and on which nights all season. On Tuesdays, Rotherfeld had landed at this particular establishment, which seemed run down and the sort of place where one did not want to touch anything.
Lark had warned him that this particular club was known to harbor men who were interested in other men, although the membership was not that exclusively. It seemed to be a club mainly for men who wanted discretion, and there were a fewwomen about, too, although Fletcher suspected they were paid for. Feeling out of his depths, Fletcher had begged Lark to come with him, so now they were walking around a dimly lit room.
Fletcher hated every part of it. The space made his skin crawl, although he could not put a finger on why. Perhaps it was because Lord Whitney was holding court in the club’s main room; Whitney was known to use his power and money to get very young women into bed with him. No respectable peer would have anything to do with him, but apparently Baron Dabney, an extremely wealthy man with a questionable reputation, had no compunction about laughing and smoking cigars with the man.
The goal now was to get in and out as quickly as possible. Why was Rotherfeld here? To find other men to bed? To engage in other nefarious doings?
“So what is your plan exactly?” Lark asked.
“If I ever had one beyond forcing Rotherfeld to talk to me, it has fled my mind. You don’t frequent this place, do you?”
“No. I would prefer not to know what my peers get up to in their spare time.”
Fletcher had to laugh at that. “You lie. You’re single-handedly keeping the scandal sheets in business.”
“All right, I like gossip, but I don’t need to see it with my own eyes.”
The only saving grace was that the inside of this club was so dimly lit and smoky that it was difficult to see much.
So now Fletcher peered through the cigar smoke and was glad to have found Rotherfeld sitting in a corner, speaking with a young man. Fletcher held Lark back to observe them for a few moments. Rotherfeld had his hand on the young man’s thigh, and then he leaned forward to…either whisper in the man’s earor nip at his chin, it was hard to tell from this angle. But the placement of Rotherfeld’s hand was a giveaway. Then Rotherfeld moved, briefly rested his lips against the man’s, and leaned away slightly.
Fletcher’s first instinct was to look away because he had no business looking upon so intimate a moment, except now he had unambiguous proof about Rotherfeld’s proclivities.
“That’s Epperson’s son,” said Lark, gesturing toward the young man.
“You know unsavory things about him, don’t you?”
Lark pressed a hand to his chest, clearly offended. “Not first-hand. I’ve been besotted with a certain marquess for several years now, so I do not pursue other men, and anyway, the younger Epperson is barely out of short pants. What do you take me for?”
“He’s, what, twenty years old? What do you think?”
“If that. Too baby-faced for my tastes. Apparently not for Rotherfeld’s, though.”
Anthony suddenly appeared. “Lark, my darling friend, this place is a scandal.”
Fletcher rolled his eyes. Lark had invited Beresford to tag along, apparently because as soon as Lark mentioned he would be coming to this club tonight, Beresford had expressed interest. “Curiosity,” Anthony had insisted.
Lark glared at Anthony. “If you so much as look at any of the other men here tonight…”
Anthony laughed and threw an arm around Lark. “No need for jealousy. You have nothing to worry about. This place reeks of desperation.”
“And spilled whisky,” Fletcher said. “What would possess someone of Rotherfeld’s stature to join such a club.”
Anthony stepped away from Lark. “I’d think that would be obvious. To cater to his own sexual desires since he won’t find them at home.”
The “with Louisa” was implied.
Fletcher cursed.
