Evan nodded, his voice firm. “For her. And for myself.”
Jonathan regarded him for a long moment, then leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Have you told her the whole truth?”
Evan’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. “You mean about Rose?”
Jonathan nodded, his gaze steady. “If you love her, Evan, don’t you think she deserves to know?”
Evan was silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “I haven’t told her,” he admitted finally. “I need to speak to Rose first. I need to know what she wants. Besides…” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “I don’t know if it matters. Does it really matter?”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “You don’t think the other most important woman in your life matters?”
Evan shook his head, his expression conflicted. “It’s not that. It’s just… the more people who know, the more likely it is that someone will find out. And I can’t risk that.”
Jonathan sighed, swirling his drink. “Maybe. But secrets have a way of coming to light, Evan. And sometimes, the longer you keep them, the more damage they do.”
Evan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire. The flickering light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the faint lines of worry etched into his features.
Before Jonathan could press further, the door opened again, and both men turned. Lord Wren strode into the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. Jonathan groaned, sinking lower into his chair. “Here we go,” he muttered.
Evan’s expression hardened, his gaze locking with Wren’s. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath as the two men regarded each other.
Jonathan sighed, draining the rest of his drink. “I take it back,” he said wryly. “He does look as though he was set on by highwaymen. I suppose the swelling didn’t come in until after we parted ways.”
Evan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile before taking another sip of his whiskey. “Good.”
Wren's left eye was swollen shut, his lips were cracked and bruised, and his nose was still red and misshapen from the impact of Evan’s fist. The attempt to conceal his injuries with powder was half-hearted at best, leaving him looking more pitiful than presentable.
Wren’s presence drew immediate attention, whispers rippling through the room like a stone skipping across a pond. Abernathy, who had been seated nearby, began to rise, clearly intending to intercept Evan, but Evan waved him off and stood. With deliberate steps, he crossed the room, each stride measured yet charged with an undeniable tension.
“How dare you show your face here,” Evan said, his voice low but sharp enough to carry. His finger jabbed toward Wren, who stood frozen, his flushed face a mixture of anger and humiliation.
Wren straightened, his lip curling in defiance. “This club is as much mine as anyone’s,” he retorted, though his voice wavered. “Besides, I’m not the one who should be embarrassed. You’re the one who resorted to pugilistic theatrics like a common brawler.”
Evan chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. “Oh, I see. You insult a lady, provoke her husband, and then cry foul when you find yourself nursing a few bruises? Tell me, Lord Wren, would you have preferred I ‘tickled your catastrophe’ with words alone?” The old colloquialism for a thorough thrashing earned a few chuckles from nearby onlookers.
Wren stiffened, but before he could reply, Evan turned to the room, his voice rising just enough to command attention. “Gentlemen, let us imagine for a moment that your wife—your duchess, no less—was insulted to your face by an unmarried man. A man who, for all his pretensions, cannot even convince a matchmaker to find a woman desperate enough to entertain his courtship. Would you not feel compelled to respond? Would you not seek satisfaction for her honor?”
A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathering. One older gentleman near the back muttered something about Wren always having too much mouth for his own good. Another nodded approvingly, murmuring, “He had it coming.”
Evan’s eyes swept the room before settling back on Wren. “So hear me now, Lord Wren. You will not speak of my wife again—neither to my face nor to anyone else. Should I so much as catch wind of you uttering a single unkind word about the Duchess of Wells, I will ensure you regret it.”
Wren’s face turned a deeper shade of red, but Evan wasn’t finished. He leaned in slightly, his voice low but laced with menace. “I know enough about you, Wren, to make certain that polite society slams its doors in your face for good. And believe me, I will not hesitate to do so.”
Wren’s eyes darted around the room, noting the smirks and nods of approval directed toward Evan. Clearly outnumbered and outmaneuvered, he gritted his teeth, muttered something under his breath, and stormed out of the club, his boots echoing against the marble floor.
Satisfied, Evan returned to his seat. He took a long drink of his whiskey, the warmth of the liquor soothing the sharp edges of his adrenaline. Jonathan, who had been silently observing, leaned forward, his expression one of impressed amusement. “I didn’t know you had so many dirty secrets about Wren.”
Evan smirked, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I don’t,” he admitted. “It’s all about the delivery. If you sound confident enough, people will believe anything.”
Jonathan chuckled, shaking his head. “Well played.”
Moments later, Abernathy approached, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Evan,” he began, his tone conciliatory, “I want to apologize for Wren’s behavior. He was out of line.”
Evan waved him off, his smile faint but genuine. “No need, Abernathy. It’s handled.”
Abernathy hesitated, then gestured toward the table. “Does this mean we’re still on for the vineyard in Bordeaux?”
Evan’s smile widened. “Of course.”