He shrugged and pushed her farther into the space, guiding her around the long table that was the centerpiece of the room, and toward the bar where Freddy argued with some patron.
“When I was at Cambridge, I kept company with a particular group of fellows.”
“A club?”
“You could call it that. We had a motto and everything. And we met weekly in coffeehouses. When I returned to London as an adult, I tried to keep the meetings going, but it didn’t take. One fellow’s brother died, and he inherited the title and everything that comes with it. Another two escaped to the continent to avoid scrutiny.”
“Avoiding marriage or scandal?”
“Both. They preferred one another’s company to any woman.”
“Oh. I hope they’re well.”
“Got a letter from Richard last month. They’re very well. Living as brothers in some tiny country.” He raked a hand through his hair. “That left me and a few others, and they decided they preferred pubs and whorehouses to coffee and Frederick’s.”
He leaned against the bar and settled Lillian close just as Freddy waved and bustled off to tend to someone else.
“What was the club about? What was your motto?”
He ducked his head. He should not be telling her this. She’d know exactly how foolish he was, but he’d brought her here to share himself with her, and that meant sharing all. “The motto wasmors tua, vita mea.”
Her brows pulled together. “Your death, my life? What does it mean?”
“Putting aside the fact that you speak Latin—because why wouldn’t Mr. Clarke’s daughter do so?—I’ll tell you. But you mustn’t laugh.”
“I swear.”
“The fellows and I who met in Cambridge coffeehouses to discuss our woes, among other things, were all second sons of titled gentlemen. We were all spares.”
“Spares.”
“Spare parts, just-in-cases, extraneous bodies. Until and unless—”
“Your brothers die.”
He bowed his head.
“That’s horrific. I don’t think I’d ever thought of it from that perspective before.”
“I don’t think most do. It’s all I’ve ever been able to think since Uncle Brutus first called me a spare.”
Lillian’s nose wrinkled. “Dare I ask what he said?”
“You must remember he’s a second son, too.” Devon’s mouth felt dry. “He said I’d better remember that my only purpose in the world was to copy my brother. Because that’s the only reason I existed, to offer a copy of him should he die.” He closed his eyes and purposefully relaxed his muscles.
In the darkness, her hands covered his where it lay on the bar. He opened his eyes to the foggy light of the coffeehouse and the coffee-brown of her worried eyes.
“Should we explode his dressing room, do you think?” She patted his hand. “Would that make you feel better?”
“Hell, Lil Bean, I just got a chill. Youareyour father’s daughter. Terrifying.”
She smirked.
He wagged his finger at her. “No exploding Uncle Brutus or his things.”
She pretended to pout. “If you insist, but Devon, you do know you’re not only a copy of your brother. Your life has more purpose than to fill his shoes just in case he dies.”
“That was one of the reasons for the Second Son’s Club. We were to help each other find our purposes for existing. The motto was a bit ironic, a saying that spoke truth to others but we rejected. My life is not my brother’s death.”
