“He had business outside London,” Lucien said. “How was my brother?”
Sipping his whisky, Tobias settled into his chair. “He had a headache. And he asked if I kept my mistress.”
In the process of lifting his glass to his lips, Lucien’s movements arrested as he pinned Tobias with a puzzled stare. “He did?”
“I found it odd too. I asked if he kept his, and he assured me, quite sternly, that he’s never had one.”
“That is certainly true. At least to my knowledge.” Lucien took the drink Tobias had interrupted. “Perhaps I should accompany him and my father with Cassandra to the queen’s drawing room tomorrow so I can pester him about why he asked you such a thing.”
“You can’t do that.” Tobias looked at him in exasperation. “I don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”
“But we are,” Wexford pointed out. He looked to Lucien. “You’d actually go to the drawing room just to investigate that?”
“Not really. I would be utterly redundant. So glad I’m not the heir,” he muttered again.
“I thought Her Majesty rather liked you,” Tobias said.
“She does, but that doesn’t mean I need to attend her drawing room and watch a score of young ladies preen.” Lucien’s shoulder twitched. He’d never been interested in participating in Society or the Marriage Mart. His father, the duke, wanted him to wed, but as the spare, Lucien felt no pressure to do so.
Wexford lifted his glass in a toast. “Hear, hear.” Lucien joined him in drinking.
Tobias frowned at his whisky. He missed the days when he was not consumed with thoughts of marriage, whether his own or that of Miss Wingate. He’d feel much better when she was settled and no longer his concern.
“Can either of you think of a well-regarded gentleman who is looking for a wife? He doesn’t need to be titled, but he must have a good reputation.” Tobias wouldn’t marry her off to a scoundrel.
He realized many in Society regarded him that way, or as a rogue, at least. Dammit. He was trying. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a week, and he’d focused the bulk of his energy on establishing his presence in the Lords.
“For Miss Wingate, I presume?” Lucien asked. “I’m trying to think of gentlemen who’ve joined the club this Season.”
“What about Witney’s spare? I met him at Brooks’s the other night.” Wexford waved his hand. “Yes, I still go there on occasion. Call me out if you must.”
Lucien laughed and cast a look of mock disdain at Tobias. “At least it isn’t White’s.”
“Anyway, his name’s Lord Gregory Blakemore,” Wexford continued. “He’s an unassuming sort. He’s been teaching at Oxford but may become a rector. I gather he is considering taking a wife.”
“It’s easier to obtain a living if you have one,” Lucien noted.
“He’s a scholar then?” Tobias thought of Miss Wingate’s interest in maps and wondered if they might, in fact, suit.
“Definitely,” Wexford said after swallowing some whisky.
“Sounds promising.” And as the second son, he likely wouldn’t care that Miss Wingate wasn’t in possession of an impeccable pedigree. Plus, she had a sizable dowry thanks to Tobias’s father. One that would grow even larger if Tobias didn’t wed.
Bloody hell, it kept coming back to that, didn’t it? He drank the rest of his whisky in one long gulp, then stood.
“Are we driving you away?” Lucien asked.
Setting his glass on a table, Tobias straightened his waistcoat. “No, just time to turn in.”
Wexford glanced toward the clock standing between a pair of windows that looked down on Ryder Street below. “It’s early yet.”
“I’m a respectable gentleman now,” Tobias said, brushing his sleeve. “I must keep respectable hours.”
Snorting, Wexford lifted his glass once more. “Better you than me.”
“Hear, hear,” Lucien said, echoing Wexford’s earlier words before taking a drink himself.
As Tobias made his way downstairs, the port and whisky caught up with him. The sounds of the gaming room called to him like a siren, but he held fast and went to the entry hall where a footman fetched his hat and gloves.
Donning the accessories, Tobias thanked the footman before stepping into the cold night. Thankfully, it sobered him slightly. But only slightly. Brooks’s was a short walk away, as were any number of other entertainments, including the lodgings of his—former—mistress on Jermyn Street.
He could walk there or to St. James’s to grab a hack. Both held temptations. He’d walk up to Piccadilly instead.
“’Evening, Toby,” came a familiar feminine coo.
Closing his eyes briefly, Tobias exhaled, his breath curling from him in a wisp of steam in the chilly air. “Barbara, why are you out in the cold?” She wore a thick cloak, but there was truly no reason for her to be out here.
She sauntered close to him. “Just out for a stroll.”
He shook his head as her familiar scent battered at his defenses, already weakened by the liquor he’d imbibed. “I’m not walking you home.”
Curling her hand around his waist, she smiled up at him. “How about I walk you home? To my lodgings, that is.” Her fingers brushed against his backside.
Typically, his body would jolt with awareness at her touching him like that, his cock hardening. And part of him did want her—the part that was warm and addled with whisky. The rest of him didn’t want her, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. Perhaps he was finally ready to actually be the man his father wanted him to be.
No, not that. Never that. Giving in to a flash of rebellion, Tobias lifted his hand to stroke his gloved fingertips along Barbara’s soft, round cheek.
Fuck his father and his machinations.
Except if he truly wanted to win, he needed to wed, and this was not how he would accomplish that.
Tobias stepped from her embrace. “Good night, Barbara.”
He turned and quickly made his way to Piccadilly and the boring safety of a hired
