* * *
Gabriel lit his cigar, then settled back to enjoy it and the fine whisky that Brentworth had poured. Brentworth had made himself comfortable as well, his head now obscured by smoke.
The only man in the chamber not at ease was their host, Adam Penrose, Duke of Stratton. He stood beside the fireplace, one elbow hitched on the mantel, trying to appear calm. All of them knew he was anything but. Above them in the ducal apartments, his wife was lying in, giving birth to their first child.
“Good of you both to agree to meet here instead of the club,” Stratton muttered.
“Your whisky is better than theirs,” Gabriel said, trying to maintain levity. “Besides, the Decadent Dukes Society can meet anywhere so long as they meet at all.”
They had formed this little group as boys in school, when they’d all found each other and realized only another ducal heir would treat a ducal heir normally. The title of their group had been a joke, at least at first.
Once a month, they met at their club for little more than what would transpire here, before going out on the town together. Not that they raised much hell anymore. Stratton had become domesticated and Brentworth had grown discreet. That left Gabriel to carry on the older traditions of the Decadent Dukes.
“She retired a while ago?” Brentworth asked, as if he knew Stratton wanted to talk about it.
“Three hours.”
“I am told these things take time.”
“Not too much, I hope. I will go mad.”
“You must not dwell on it or the time will seem never to pass. Langford, distract him. Tell him about . . . oh, I don’t know, something diverting. Ah, I have it. Tell him about all the interest in that speech you gave in Parliament.”
“Why don’t you tell him about your recent contretemps with your mistress? That is far more amusing, or at least most of society thinks so.”
Brentworth’s gaze darkened. “There was no contretemps. A mere misunderstanding, that is all.”
“That is not the way I heard it.”
“You just heard it from me, and that is how I told it.”
“I also heard it from at least five other people, some who heard it from her, and they told it differently.”
“How so?” Brentworth asked in the cold, crisp tone that heralded danger. At least Stratton was distracted now. He watched with interest.
Gabriel cleared his throat. He puffed on his cigar. He swallowed some spirits. Each delay made Brentworth stormier. “It is said.” He puffed again just to annoy Brentworth more. “It is said that due to your disagreement she wanted to throw you over, but you begged her to reconsider.”
“The hell you say,” Stratton exclaimed. He eagerly turned to Brentworth for confirmation or denial.
“The hell you say,” Brentworth echoed, flatly and darkly.
“And it is said that you gave her pearl earbobs the next day to ingratiate yourself.”
“The hell I did.”
“Well, that is what is being said. If you tell me what really happened, I am happy to correct the gossip when I hear it.”
“I do not discuss—”
“Yes, yes, we know. Have it your way. I will continue to listen with interest while she grinds your carefully created reputation for discreet ravishments into dust.”
“What will you do?” Stratton asked. “I thought you always entered these alliances with a clear understanding that there would be no gossip no matter what happened.”
“It appears someone decided to void that contract to save face.”
“Are you saying you threw her over?”
Brentworth barely nodded. “The earrings were a parting gift.”
