Race had been to his house twice, the clubs, and searched several of the parties the past two nights, trying to locate him, but the whipster always seemed to be one step ahead of him. Race hadn’t made it home until almost dawn and had ended up sleeping longer than he’d intended.
Already this afternoon, Race had checked Gibby’s home, White’s, and the Rusty Nail. Now, here he was at Harbor Lights again at the end of the day. If Gib wasn’t inside, Race wouldn’t know where else to look. He stopped at the entrance of the taproom and saw the old fellow sitting at his favorite table by the window, an empty plate in front of him. A slice of late afternoon sunshine fell across his face, heightening his ruddy cheeks.
Just looking at him enjoying the sights outside the window curbed Race’s annoyance at having to search for him. Maybe Gibby didn’t try to get himself into one mishap after another, but it sure seemed that way sometimes, and it had especially seemed that way with Prattle and the pugilism match. This had to be the most outrageous of all the things with which he had become involved over the years.
Taking a deep breath, Race walked over and pulled out the chair opposite Gibby and sat down without bothering to speak.
“You don’t look so well, Race. Something wrong?”
Race harrumphed, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t act as if you are blameless in the reason behind my ill temper.”
“All right, I won’t,” he offered innocently, searching Race’s face as if he didn’t understand his attitude.
Race uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “I’m worried about you. Damnation, Gib, you had me dreaming that you were getting pummeled by a rotund, balding man named Prattle while his spinster sister stood by and laughed. So you’re damned right something is wrong with me.”
“Hell’s bells, Race.” Gibby laughed good-naturedly. “I didn’t know you were given to nightmares. You need something to put you in a better disposition. What are you drinking?”
“Something strong,” he muttered, trying to hold on to his annoyance, but with Gibby, that was a hard thing to do. He was just so damned likable.
Race looked down and saw a glass in front of Gibby that looked like it had milk in it. It must be some new concoction the club had come up with. “What are you drinking?”
“Milk.”
Race couldn’t think of any drink that would be good in milk except a very sweet, very strong liqueur. Given his bad humor, that would work for him.
“I’ll have whatever it is you are drinking.”
Gibby motioned to the server, pointed to his glass, and then held up two fingers.
“Now, tell me why you didn’t inform me the Duchess of Blooming was after your grandmother’s pearls? I thought you two were just out for an afternoon stroll.”
Race was taken aback by Gibby’s terse question. And was that anger he saw in Gib’s dark brown eyes?
“We were just out for a stroll until we met you, and I couldn’t very well introduce her to you as the duchess who wants my inheritance from Grandmother, now could I?”
“No, but you could have told me about her when you told Morgan and Blake. Why am I always the last one to know what goes on in this family?”
Race felt his own ire rise again. “What I’d like to know is why everyone in this family is suddenly feeling left out if they don’t know everything about my affairs before I know it?”
“Well, I do feel left out,” Gib said. “I don’t like being the last one to know what is going on with you three guardian fools.”
Something told Race this conversation was going the same route as when Blake found out he hadn’t been told about the duchess and her quest for Lady Elder’s pearls. Race hadn’t come to talk about that. He wanted to discuss Gibby’s outrageous stunt in Hyde Park.
“Listen, Gib,” Race said, trying to stay calm. “I’m not any more concerned about the duchess than I was about Prinny’s representative, the one-armed antiquities dealer, or that arrogant buccaneer who’s trying to worm his way into every titled man’s home in London. In fact, I’m probably not as worried about her as I should be about the other three.”
Gibby’s eyes narrowed. “You know that all three of the men who want the pearls are still in London, don’t you? Four, if you count Her Grace.”
“I know Spyglass and Winston are inserting themselves into Society, and I know the antiquities dealer has a shop on the other side of Town,” Race said, refusing to acknowledge Gibby’s remark about Susannah.
“Spyglass is attending every party he gets invited to, and Winston is making his presence known at the parties and in all the clubs.”
“That’s not surprising about either one of them. With Prinny’s backing, Winston can go wherever he wants. And I’ve heard rumors Spyglass intends to host his own party before the Season ends.”
“I’ve heard that about Spyglass, too. Everyone wants to get in good with the prince, and every young lady wants to say she’s danced with a handsome buccaneer. Smith is another story. He doesn’t have the heritage to ease his way into Polite Society, but he’s been seen at a few places in the Hells recently.”
“That’s probably where he belongs.”
The men’s presence in London didn’t worry Race, but he was beginning to get tired of being pursued because of the necklace. It was true that the pearls would be worth a fortune in any market, but that’s not where their value lay as far as Race was concerned. The pearls were his grandmother’s most prized possession, and she had left them to him. He wasn’t about to give them up to anyone.
