Ben drummed his fingers on his knee. “He typically hits Boodle’s after a significant loss. Doubt he’d go to White’s. Too much of a possibility of running into his father.”
That worked for Emerson as well, as he was not welcome at White’s. He rapped on the roof and gave the order to Amir. “Best way to show a bully he’s failed,” Emerson informed his brother, “is to carry on as if nothing’s amiss.”
Oddly enough, Ben nodded but remained quiet.
Minutes later, the carriage rolled to a halt beneath Boodle’s sober facade. It’s frontage loomed above, respectable and unassuming, its lanterns casting a steady glow that illuminated not a hint of scandal—though Emerson knew well enough the weight of debts and whispered wagers cloaked within.
Inside, the vestibule was warm, the marble floor gleaming in candlelight. A porter bowed, his glance flicking over Emerson’s greatcoat before settling on Ben with more interest. No doubt he recognized a Massey of Hallandale.
Ben inclined his head with habitual ease, giving Emerson more insight into this brother he’d failed in getting to know. The manservant’s regard shifted, polite but faintly cautious, toward Emerson. He resisted an urge to laugh aloud.Illegitimacy clings, even when you’re dressed as a gentleman having just attended his firsttonevent. Still, he surrendered his hat and gloves to the porter, then followed his brother into the coffee room.
The air changed at once—subdued, measured, like entering a chapel of masculine privilege. Fires blazed low in marble hearths, their heat barely cutting the overhanging tobacco haze. Gentlemen raised their bent heads from their newspapers. Those that lingered at tables set with half-finished suppers also stopped and looked their way. Newspapers lowered, permitting good long looks in their direction. Whether it was because Emerson had accompanied Ben or the fact that Emerson deigned to enter their sainted sanctuary.
But Ben strode forward with a confidence Emerson could not mirror—not in this setting—his voice pitched casually. “Shall we try the card room?”
Emerson’s mouth curved without humor, and he inclined his head. “Lead on.”
They crossed the chamber. A pair of elderly peers sat at a corner table, their port untouched while their eyes tracked him with the steady curiosity of men scenting intrigue.
Ben stopped. “Good evening, Lord Martindale.”
The marquis came to his feet. “Ah, Mr. Massey.” He looked Emerson over, which sent the hair at his nape rippling with indignation. “You must be Mr. Whitmore.”
Emerson swallowed his surprise. “I am.”
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
What?
“Your betrothal to Lady Stanford. Lord Stanford was a buffoon and she deserves better. One can hardly blame the woman for flouting mourning the reprobate.”
Dumbstruck, Emerson found himself at a loss for words.
“I was at the Harlowe event when Lady Ingleby spread the word.” Lord Martindale chuckled. “Of course, that’s putting it mildly.”
A snort escaped Ben.
Imagining Rose’s reaction had him swallowing another groan. “Thank you, my lord. I shall pass on your felicitations.”
Again, Martindale laughed. “Oh, I’m surethatwon’t be necessary, sir. My wife and several of her cronies are likely to storm Stanford House the moment the fashionable hour hits.”
“We welcome Lady Stanford to the family,” Ben said unable to stifle his amusement. “If you’ll excuse us, sir, we are on the hunt for Lord Stockton.”
“Ah, sad case, that.” His bushy brows furrowed. “Those youngbloods should reconsider the company they keep.” He gave an embarrassed cough. “I, er, believe you’ll find Stockton in the library, er, drowning his sorrows.”
“Of course,” Ben said, smiling. “We shall check there.”
Emerson inclined his head toward Martindale and followed Ben where they bypassed the card room and entered the library.
It was perhaps the most respectable library Emerson had ever seen, save his own in Ratcliff Cross. The shelves stretched floor to ceiling and were filled with parliamentary debates, volumes of the classics, and histories of wars past. Leather wing chairs were arranged in clusters in and about the room. There were a few older gentlemen sitting near the marble fireplace. Some talked quietly among themselves, others held newspapers where the rustle of turning pages was as prevalent as the tick of the great clock standing tall against a far wall that posted the time as well past one in the morning.
The ambiance was pleasing with its dark wood walls and fragrance of worn leather, to the forest-green velvet draperies held back by gold-colored braided cords with fringed tassels.
But someone noticed him. A tall figure rose from a cluster near the fire, eyes narrowing with sly recognition. “Whitmore,” the man drawled, drawing his companions’ attention as neatly as if he’d rung a bell. “I’d not expected to seeyouat Boodle’s.”
The words were courteous, but the tone—edged with curiosity and faint disdain—set every nerve on alert. Emerson smiled faintly. “Then it is my pleasure to surprise you,” he told his old rival, Captain Middleton of theWoodlark. Frankly, it was a wonder the man still lived, given rumors of some of the cargo he carried.
The rustle of papers ceased. From the cluster near the fire, two figures drew notice—Stockton slouched inelegantly in his chair, glass dangling from unsteady fingers and the other, the Marquis of Shufflebottom sat upright, keen-eyed, his expression sharpened with the satisfaction of a spider drawing a fly close to the web.
