“But—”
“You can inform my mother, Oxford has offered his services in assisting me getting them published.” That should appease both her mother and her maid.
The audible swallow forestalled any further comments from her maid.
Maeve dropped the last of the pins from her head and pushed her fingers through her hair and vehemently scratched. Lord, that felt good. She picked up her brush and looked over her shoulder at Parson. With another curve of her lips she couldn’t quite muster sincerity for, she said, “That will be all for tonight, Parson. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Learn anything about Dorset I should know?” Harlowe maintained a casual walk, down the upscale walks of Mayfair, surprised at how groggy he still felt. The cravings weren’t horrible most days, and he longed for the day when they ended. What if they never ended? His body quivered at that horror. He quickly shook it off and surveyed his surroundings.
This portion of London didn’t harbor the riff-raff of Seven Dials, Bethnal Green, or Whitechapel. Sadly, one would never find a young woman walking about at this hour.
Not one who didn’t require accompaniment. Or one without.
“Dorset is three and thirty,” Rory said, snagging Harlowe’s attention. “He has four younger sisters, and the last one was just married off, though, himself’s never wed.” Rory chuckled. “The debs are after him like vultures on a carcass.”
Harlowe grunted. Like he’d needed to hear that.
“Fact is, if he wadn’t a nob, he’d be a regular bloke.” Rory’s admiration of Dorset was growing by bounds.
Harlowe grinned in the night. He appreciated Rory in forgetting Harlowe was a ‘nob’ too. “What of Oxford?”
“Bah. He’s an arrogant arse but nothing unexpected.”
They continued their walk on Stratton towards Green Park in the brisk cool air. Harlowe led the way to Watiers by way of Bolton then halted before a darkened building. “What happened here?”
“To Watiers, my lord? It was disbanded last year.”
With his hand on his hip, Harlowe surveyed the area in disgust. “What of White’s, Boodles? Are they gone as well?” he demanded.
“No, milord.”
That was a relief. Harlowe felt as if he’d recently risen from the dead to a future where onecouldfly to the moon—a silly notion to be sure. They ambled along Piccadilly to St. James. He let out a profound breath at seeing the windows lit up and hearing the chatter that spilled out. A group of young men stumbled out onto one of the balconies situated over the portico, smoking.
Harlowe started for the door, but Rory held back. “What is it, man?”
“I’ll just wait out here, yer lordship.”
Ah. He wasn’t a member. Nor was he dressed to accompany Harlowe inside. “Of course. I’m sorry, Rory. How remiss of me. Perhaps you could listen for something from the men leaving. I shan’t be long.”
Rory moved off to a strand of trees, fading into their shadows. It was an excellent strategy, actually.
Harlowe pardoned his way inside through the young bucks coming out. They were a boisterous bunch, making him feel older than dirt. The smell of expensive leather and tobacco hit him, and he grew a little lightheaded. He grasped the knob of the balustrade to steady himself then worked his way up to the second level. It had been so long since he’d moved in this realm it felt otherworldly.
Snatches of conversation wielded over him like a blacksmithy’s hammer. The crowded gaming tables stole all the oxygen from the rooms. There didn’t seem to be an open window anywhere. Anxiety pumped through his blood, rushed his ears, dotted his vision. Doing his best to quell his panic to appear normal, even with his skin pulled so tight he thought it would peel away, Harlowe set his sight on a window at the end of a long stretch of hall. It appeared cracked, beckoning him like the laudanum he fought so desperately against.
Harlowe reached the window, shoved it wide, breathing in the deep cold rush. On the third round, his vision cleared, and his hearing sharpened to those around.
“A drink, Lord Harlowe?”
Slowly, Harlowe swiveled, recognizing the head waiter, but unable to recall his name. “Whiskey,” he said, knowing and inwardly cringing at the choked intonation.
Nodding, the man disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared only to be replaced by his childhood friend, Baron Welton. “How good to see you, George.” How strange that he could remember some things and not others. It made no sense at all.
Welton clapped him on the back. “Where you been keeping yourself for nigh on a year, Brandon?”
“Here and there,” he answered carefully.
“Heard you got yourself married—er, sorry, old chap. Also heard she passed.”
