“Thank you. Is, er, any of the old set here?” Harlowe asked.
“Yes, yes. Most of ’em. Not much changes for the ranks, does it?”
“No, I suppose not.” Only for men like him who’d been hit on the head, left for dead, then tossed in an asylum, drugged and dumped on a ship bound for who knew where. Such a path had the tendency to make a man stop and think about life as it were.
“At least you got your heir, eh?”
“There’s that,” he murmured, cursing the waiter for taking so long to bring his whiskey. “Ah, thanks.” It was if he’d snapped his fingers and his drink appeared. Harlowe took a long swallow, nearly downing the entire contents. “What’s with the large crowd?” Had it always been such and he just didn’t remember?
“The race at Newmarket was yesterday and everyone hurried back to town to celebrate their wins.”
“So, you’re still gracing all the regular haunts, are you?”
“Yes, yes. Looking for my heiress nightly, then gaming my way till morn, most days.” Welton pulled back, narrowing his drunken gaze over him. “You don’t look so well, my friend. Thought you might be a little relieved that—”
A chill stole up Harlowe’s spine, raising the hair on his neck. “Relieved at what?”
“Er, ah, nothing, nothing,” Welton quickly backtracked.
A deadly calm swept him. “To lose my wife?”
Welton’s mouth clamped in a tight line, and he wisely said nothing.
Perhaps he’d noticed Harlowe’s tightened fist. It wouldn’t be the first time he and his friend had scuffled. But Welton had always fallen on the cowardly side of the line. “Why would you think I’d be glad my wife was dead, Welton?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Harlowe waited but apparently his old friend had said all he was going to say on the matter. An unusual tact for Welton. “So where are the dandies hanging about now that Watiers has gone debunk?”
“Oh, here and there. Widow Chancé still hosts her art salons. The Althe—er—” He stopped, glanced around, then said, “White’s, of course, Navy. A few others have come and gone.” Welton downed his drink, clapped Harlowe on the back again. “Good to see you, Harlowe. I’m meeting Shufflebottom and a few others for late night trolling.” He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I appreciate it, but I’ll pass for now. Wouldn’t look good, would it, for gaming the night away after just having lost my wife.”
Welton nodded then took his leave.
Harlowe looked out at the night sky, another memory assaulting him. The Athenaeum Order. That’s what Welton had been about to say. Harlowe’s lips tightened in disgust. A group of debauched men Harlowe had ever known. It was an underground establishment. Men who preferred young girls. Really young. Suddenly, the street scene painting he’d shown Maeve floated before him. That had been Maudsley’s house, right? Or was it Rowena Hollerfield’s—
God, his aching head. The pain had returned with a vengeance.
Eleven
T
he next morning Maeve smoothed her hands over her pale-peach day gown and checked her hair in the mirror. She was dressed for her outing with Lorelei, Ginny, and the children. She hurried to the morning room for a quick fast of tea and scones.
Lorelei sauntered in, followed by Ginny, Irene, and Celia.
“Good morning, ladies.” Maeve smiled at the sight of gowns in colors ranging from pink to sky blue to yellow. “Don’t you look festive this morning.”
“Mama decided we needed comportment after our lessons with Papa. We were most rambunctious,” six-year-old Cecilia informed her.
Maeve lifted her cup to hide her grin. “I see.”
“What else did Mama tell us?” Irene asked of her younger sister.
“Oh, yes. Not to mention our safe-guarding lessons outside of home.” Celia plopped down in the nearest chair and eyed Maeve’s scone. “But this feels like home so I thought I could mention it here.”
Lorelei wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You are quite right, Celia. This is your home as well. Irene, you and Celia, help yourselves to the sidebar.”
