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The charcoal smeared as he attempted to perfect the planes of her face. Abram pulled the parchment, frustration mounting in his chest. He could only dream of drawing or painting something so beautiful. His ineptitude ground its heels into his confidence.

Closing his journal, he leaned forward onto the table and rubbed at the space between his eyes.

With a glance around, he noted the Dove and Hound had emptied some. Some players lingered at the billiard table, a few others scattered about gambling, and then he found Rowan. He was in a seemingly heated discussion with an old gentleman with pale skin and reddened cheeks.

He could not tell whether they were jovial with one another, and Abram did not know the man. Had never seen him before. Without thinking, he stood from his seat nearest the fireplace and walked over to Rowan, standing at his side.

The pair was not in any way agreeable. In fact, they were very disagreeable.

And Abram recognized the elder gentleman, after all.

“My lord, you have no cause for concern. I am merely objecting for your description of Ireland,” Rowan said.

To engage in a public dispute was unlike Rowan. Abram clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Two blokes chattering about like two old hens. Surely, an amicable outcome is possible, is it not?”

Abram looked between the two sour-faced chaps, Rowan’s olive skin overcome with red blotches at his neck and cheeks. The other man was turning red with a bulbous vein riding up the side of his neck.

“This bloke has insulted my honor. The absurdity has vexed me. To think the Irish countryside is in any way comparable to England is absurd,” the man said, punctuated by an exaggerated sneer. Undoubtedly, he did not enjoy being challenged by someone free of rank, absent of power. To challenge his opinion was an assault on his privilege.

“Of course, my lord. We apologize for any offense. And agree, there is nowhere so fine as the true English shores,” Abram offered.

The Earl of Brookshire had a reputation among the members of the ton as proud and brash, never one to be disputed, even when dead wrong. To provoke him would only serve to make him louder, and if possible even more wrong.

“Good man. And you, Mr. Fain, I should like for you to help me create a new miniature. I have shirked the responsibility of taking a new bride. This very season,” he said, his unmistakable brand of immodesty etched in every word.

“I should be delighted. I will begin straight away. At the moment, I am otherwise—”

“Yes, yes. We are dear friends, Mrs. Seraphine Ambrette Gray and I. I had the honor of sponsoring her young ladies last season. A most acceptable match was made, and it is time I secure my own, is it not?” He placed his hands at the lapels of his waistcoat with a decidedly obnoxious smirk.

“Certainly, my lord. I am thankful for the opportunity.”

“Very well, Mr. Fain. I shall meet you at the Gray manor on the morrow.” Offering a stiff nod, he turned and continued to another area of the club, if the definition were to be loosely applied.

“On the morrow, then,” Abram called after him, so low, the earl likely did not hear. Turning back to Rowan, he tilted his head in question.

“I apologize for drawing unwanted attention, but the man is in his cups. I could have told him the sky was blue and he would have found quarrel.”

Abram could not argue, for he knew the lord’s temperament to be unreliable. “Let us stay away from the insufferable. I am sure it is catching.”

The pair shared a chuckle. On his way back to the table, he caught sight of the Viscount Fredericks and the Earl of Brookshire engaged in what could only be described as another debate, likely over the sun or the moon, for truly the earl could dispute any fact with his ignorance.

Viscount Fredericks appeared exhausted from the conversation, and Abram did not envy his position in the slightest.

“He is gobshite. I simply advised him of Lough Neagh as he extolled the virtues of the English Channel. Impossible!” Rowan took his seat.

“Not everyone is educated about Ireland and the culture, even if we share the same monarchy,” Abram said, only partially agreeing with Rowan. He should not argue with lords, for more reasons than simply appearing unruly.

“I should only hope for a time when that should not be the case.” Rowan slumped in his chair.

“May food put us in good humors. Shall we take our leave?” Abram thought it better to find someone else to entertain themselves. There were many inns to consider along the way. The bachelor apartments they’d let were in a more reputable part of town. Far fewer brawls from which to scurry away.

On their way out, Abram noted the viscount’s temperament. He did not seem a tyrant. Nor was he boastful. Abram’s own father was closer to the earl’s demeanor. He wondered whether a man with such sensibilities as the viscount’s would be a fine father to his children?

Perhaps rearing children required joviality? Of that, Abram would never know. To bring a child into such a world was unconscionable. At least, Abram could be assured the world too cruel for gentle souls. Of that, he was certain.

Chapter Seven

“Stunning, my dear,” Mama said. “I do have a question, however. Is that the same dress you wore at the onset of our sitting?”