“That would not be him.” Ives, his temper under control, turned back into the lawyer examining evidence logically, methodically. Gareth would have preferred angry, but silent. “He is never called Hemingford by his lovers.”
Kniveton frowned. “If not him, who? Not Percival.”
“Percy was too much a miser to get entangled with a woman who expects the gifts your wife is reputed to demand.”
“Reput— What the— That only leaves—” He glared at Ives.
“Sorry, not me. I insist my lovers address me in another way. Calling me Hemingford lacks the appropriate sentiment.”
Gareth looked over with curiosity. “You never struck me as one for all the darlings and pet names women use.”
“I can’t abide them. I much prefer being addressed My Lord and Master, actually.”
“Hell, if it wasn’t one of the two of them, who was it? We’ve run out of Hemingfords, so someone is lying.”
An odd silence fell. Gareth tried to appear as perplexed as the others.
Ives cast him a sidelong, questioning look.
Kniveton gazed sharply at Lance, who had won again, then suspiciously at Ives. Then, quizzically at Gareth. One could all but hear his befuddled brain sorting through it all.
“You.”
“Under the circumstances, so you do not disparage my brothers in ways that will lead to a duel, I will admit it. She was addressing that letter to me. It is I with whom she still does wicked things in her dreams.”
“The hell you say. You are not a Hemingford.”
“Not officially. She liked to call me that anyway. Perhaps she found it more erotic to suck the cock of a duke’s son if she pretended he were legitimate.”
Kniveton appeared confused for a three count, as if he needed a moment to believe he had heard correctly. His two friends bit back grins.
“How dare— She never— I should call you out!”
“If you must, then do. However, I would rather not kill you over a pleasure so long ago enjoyed, fond though the memory might be.”
Kniveton lunged. Gareth ducked. Kniveton’s fist landed on the jaw of a man in the crowd who had turned to watch the show.
Ives grabbed Kniveton, set him back, and gestured to his friends. “He is foxed, and will be grateful tomorrow if you remove him now. He does not want to duel with this one. Bastard he may be, but he can shoot a button off a man’s coat without ripping the wool it decorates.”
The two of them restrained Kniveton, and pulled him away.
Ives’s mouth and forehead frowned, but his eyes twinkled. “You did have to describe the lady’s finest talent.”
“If she were my wife, I would want to know so I got my fair share.”
The crowd dispersed. Lance walked to them. “What did Kniveton want?”
“To see you swing,” Ives said.
“I can’t blame him. I did fuck his wife. She really likes to s—”
“Yes, we know,” Ives said.
Lance wandered away, toward the hazard table.
Ives looked at Gareth. “Damn, all this talk of the lady’s predilections has me hard as an iron rod. Did you lie to draw the fire, or am I the only brother who did not get his fair share, as you put it?”
Gareth shrugged, and followed Lance.
