“I know what would cheer you up,” Follett said.
“What’s that?” Oliver asked.
“We could race our horses through the streets,” Follett suggested. “It is late enough that they should be empty.”
“That sounds like a rather foolhardy thing to do,” Oliver remarked.
“What if we went to Hyde Park?” Haskett questioned.
Oliver shook his head. “I would prefer to do something that wouldn’t result in us or our horses being injured.”
Booth smirked. “We could go to Lady Haight’s soirée.”
“I wasn’t invited,” Follett said.
“Neither was I,” Booth responded. “But when has that stopped us before?”
The serving woman placed a glass of brandy down in front of Oliver and winked at him before she left.
Oliver reached for the glass and pretended to take a sip. As he brought the glass down, he said, “We’d better not. My brother and his new wife will be in attendance, and I would hate to make a scene.”
“Since when?” Booth questioned.
“Since my brother controls my allowance,” Oliver answered.
Follett nodded his understanding. “How is it having your brother home after all these years?”
“It has been an adjustment, but I am pleased that he finally came home,” Oliver replied.
Glancing over his shoulder, Haskett asked in a hushed voice, “Did he tell you why he disappeared for three years?”
“He did,” Oliver responded. “He was running from his responsibilities after my father died and went to reside in our Scottish manor.” That was the partial truth, but his friends didn’t need to know the real reason why his brother had left.
“Wouldn’t that be grand to just leave Town for a while, shirking all your responsibilities?” Booth asked.
“What responsibilities?” Follett joked before he tossed back the rest of his drink. “You are the second son of a wealthy viscount.”
Booth chuckled. “I am required to help manage our family’s vast holdings.”
“That must be exhausting,” Follett said, his words slurred.
“I can assure you that it is,” Booth remarked as he reached for his glass, “especially since I know my insipid older brother will inherit all of it after my father dies.”
Haskett spoke up. “You both are lucky idiots,” he declared. “The last time I spoke to my father, he wanted me to become a vicar.”
“A vicar?” Oliver asked.
“He feels that it might bring a purpose to my life,” Haskett revealed, “but I informed him that I have no interest in becoming a vicar.”
Booth gulped down his drink. “I should say not. I doubt you could get the much-needed testimonial from Oxford vouching of your fitness for ordination.”
“I didn’t leave Oxford on the best terms,” Haskett confessed sheepishly.
Oliver grinned. “No, you did not. That is generally what happens when you break the rules.”
“Rules are made to be broken,” Haskett joked.
“I disagree,” Follett replied, leaning into Haskett. “Rules are required for us to have a polite Society.”
“Finally, someone is making a lick of sense,” Oliver declared.
Haskett laughed as he shoved Follet away from him. “Follett is just drunk.”
“I am not,” Follett responded. “I have just had an epiphany.”
“You have?” Booth asked.
Follett bobbed his head vehemently. “I should be a vicar!”
“You, a vicar?” Haskett asked. “That is absurd!”
“I disagree,” Follett said, his voice rising. “I like telling people what to do.”
Oliver lifted his brow. “I don’t think vicars tell people what to do.”
“They preach to us every Sunday about how we should be better and whatnot,” Follett explained. “I could do precisely the same thing, and I would do it better.”
“But you would just spout nonsense,” Haskett joked.
Follett smirked. “Isn’t that what vicars do?”
Booth turned his attention towards Oliver. “Our friend has gone mad.”
“I would agree,” Oliver replied. “Perhaps it is time that we called it a night.”
Haskett removed the pocket watch from his waistcoat and studied it closely. After a long moment, he asked, “Isn’t it rather early to be calling it a night?”
“It is not,” Oliver said, shoving back his chair. “I find that I have had my fill of cards and alcohol this evening.”
Booth placed his hand to his chest, feigning outrage. “You wound me, sir.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Oliver remarked as he rose.
The serving woman hurried over to him and asked, “Can I get you anything, milord?”
Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a coin and extended it towards her. “No, thank you.”
“Thank you for your generosity this evening.” She accepted the coin and slipped it into the pocket of her green gown.
Oliver gave her a brief nod and pushed in his chair. “I shall see you all tomorrow at Mrs. Linfield’s ball.”
“Will Lady Jane be in attendance?” Booth asked eagerly.
Oliver pointed his finger at Booth and ordered, “You will leave my sister alone.”
Booth put up his hands in surrender. “I was just curious.”
“If I catch any of you even speaking to my sister, I shall have no choice but to challenge you to a duel,” Oliver warned.
“That would be foolish on your part,” Booth teased. “I am quite proficient with a pistol.”
A slow, smug smile came over Oliver’s lips. “I assure you that I can outshoot you any day of the week.”
Booth grew serious. “You have made your point,” he replied. “I won’t even attempt to engage your sister in a conversation.”
“Very good,” Oliver muttered before he turned to leave.
As he made his way through the gambling hell, his alert eyes scanned the room, looking for anything suspicious. But he found nothing out of the ordinary.
He opened the door and stepped outside. The pungent odor in the air assaulted his senses as he started walking down the worn cobblestone street. He kicked at a rock that was near his boot and watched it take flight across the pavement.
Oliver had just turned the corner when he heard booted steps behind him. He stopped and turned back around. A brawny man in threadbare clothing was standing a few yards back, gripping a small dagger in his right hand. A prominent scar ran the length of his sunken-in
