MISS HONORA TRUTH’S WEEKLY SCANDAL SHEET
Chapter 9
A gentleman should never discuss his wooing of the perfect lady with his friends.
APROPERGENTLEMAN’SGUIDETOWOOINGTHEPERFECTLADY
SIRVINCENTTYBALTVALENTINE
White’s.
There were other gentlemen’s clubs in London. Some less important, others more exclusive—such as the Heirs’ Club, which allowed only titled gentlemen—but there were none more revered or celebrated than the club that was established over one hundred years ago for the elite of Society. The stone building in St. James wasn’t excessively grand inside or out, though the address alone would make it notable. The lighting was dim, the ceilings low, and the rooms small. Most of the chairs were uncomfortable for a man the size of Hawk, who stood well over six feet tall. It was the membership and the infamous wager book that made White’s the most prestigious and most talked-about club in all of England.
White’s was the first place Hawk always wanted to gowhen he returned to London. The taproom, billiard tables, and reading room were always busy with members. No matter the time of day or night he frequented the place, he could always rely on someone being there to catch him up on the latest news if Rath, the Duke of Rathburne, or Griffin, the Duke of Griffin, were out of Town.
However, they were not today.
They were sitting across the table from him in the taproom. Studying him.
And with good reason.
He’d just told them the same thing he’d told Adele yesterday. He had no answer from Mr. Quick about marrying her.
Amid the low hum of masculine chatter, the rattle of glasses knocking together, and the thunk of tankards hitting wood tables, he looked at them, too. The friends he’d known since they were boys. They were tall, broad-shouldered, and British aristocracy through and through—though Rath hardly looked his heritage. His dark eyes and recently trimmed, shorter-than-usual dark hair made him look more European or Greek than true-blood British.
Hawk and Griffin had entered Eton at the same time and quickly formed a bond. Rath had come a year later and was welcomed by them a year after that, when he’d shared a bottle of his father’s best port that he’d sneaked into the school hidden in a false bottom in his satchel. Over the next few years, their friendships had withstood rivalries in grades as well as shooting, archery, fencing, and other games of sport. No matter what they were doing, each of them wanted to best the other two.
They weren’t all dukes when they met, but they were all exceptionally intelligent and overly reckless. Hellions who grew up to become rakes—of the highest order, most people would say. After Oxford, they turned to sharpeningtheir skills in gambling, horse racing, women, and, most infamously, wagers.
Though Griffin shouldn’t bear the status of rake anymore, Hawk and Rath had recently decided. He’d married last year and now spent more time with his beautiful bride than with the two of them at the gentlemen’s clubs, gaming hells, and private parties that were havens of pleasure for raucous young men.
“Does Mr. Quick want more incentive?” Griffin asked as the server put three pewter tankards of ale on the table in front of them.
“Blunt or property?” Rath asked, casually leaning his chair back on two legs.
“Neither, right now,” Hawk answered as the pungent scent of the dark ale drifted up to him. “I didn’t get the opportunity to talk to him. He wasn’t there.”
“All that way and the man was gone?” Griffin questioned.
Rath blew out a breath. “How did that happen? I thought he knew you were coming. What a waste of time.”
No, Hawk thought. It wasn’t a waste of time. Meeting Miss Quick, talking with her, holding her in his arms, and kissing her soft lips made the half-day walk in the freezing rain worth every step.
“He’d been gone more than a fortnight and hadn’t received the letter that I was coming for a visit.”
“I haven’t seen him in London while you’ve been away,” Griffin said and turned to Rath. “Have you?”
Rath shook his head. “Where was the fellow?”
“I never found out. His sister didn’t seem to know where he’d gone.” Or if she did, she wasn’t going to tell Hawk. “Not that I would have hunted him down, but it would have been good to know exactly when he was expected to return.”
“Sister?” Griffin asked and cut his eyes around to Rath, who then quickly looked at Hawk.
“Yes, that’s right,” Rath said. “I remember now. The man does have a sister. I thought she went into a convent.” He turned to Griffin. “Maybe I’m wrong?”
“No,” Griffin replied. “That was the rumor I heard—what was it… two or three years ago now. She was to marry Viscount Denningcourt. I believe they were at the church about to say vows when she decided she couldn’t go through with the wedding. I don’t remember the precise wording, but she told her uncle she’d rather be a nun taking care of the poor than be a wife to the viscount.”
It wouldn’t surprise Hawk if she’d said exactly that. If she were quite comfortable speaking her mind to a duke, she certainly wouldn’t cower before the viscount or the earl.
