One
London, England
1804
Lord Grey Adlard entered White’s gentlemen’s club, intent on one purpose—to find and wring the neck of Gravenhurst, his former best friend as of roughly twenty minutes ago. Before Grey got two steps into the entranceway, Henry, White’s stuffiest and Grey’s favorite footman, appeared.
“Milord, may I take your hat and coat?” As usual, Henry’s droopy eyelids made it hard to gauge his reaction, but Grey bet his soggy state shocked the proper footman. Hell, it shockedhim, and he was far from proper.
He held out his dripping coat and hat, trying to ignore the water pattering against the floor from his garments. He looked like a damn fool. At Henry’s annoyed inhalation, Grey narrowed his eyes, daring Henry to say a word. After being forced to traverse down a thorny rose trellis and take an unplanned midnight swim in a freezing lake to escape the sudden appearance of Lady Julia’s irate father, Grey was in no mood for Henry’s reproach. “Is Gravenhurst here?”
“Of course.” Henry took Grey’s coat with the tips of his fingers and eyed it distastefully. “Lord Grey, you are dripping on my floor.”
Grey glanced at the puddle at his feet, his neck warming in irritation. His favorite shoes were ruined, not to mention his trousers. Tiny rips covered the front of the fine, black material. Gravenhurst would pay to replace these,ifhe decided to let the man live. “Sorry, Henry. Might I have a towel?”
“You might. But first, you must promise no fisticuffs. I’d hate to have you and Lord Gravenhurst thrown out again.”
Grey scanned White’s for Gravenhurst. He found the man positioned diagonally from the entranceway, one blond eyebrow raised, left foot propped leisurely on his right knee, coat off, cravat loose, drink in hand, and perfectly dry. The man deserved to be dumped in the lake. “Might I have that towel before I catch my death?”
“Milord, your promise?”
Henry’s brazenness made Grey smile. He preferred audacity over timidity any day. “You’re impertinent.” He said it to goad Henry. The man’s sharp-witted responses never disappointed.
“Yes, milord.”
“That’s it?”
Henry’s mouth twitched upward in a faint smile. “I’m afraid so, milord. We’re very busy, and short-staffed.”
Bollocks. There was no fun to be found anywhere tonight. “Fine. I promise no fisticuffs.” He dried himself with the towel Henry handed him. When he was as dry as he could manage, he handed the towel to Henry. “I’d like to remind you that my fight with Gravenhurst was years ago.”
“All I remember are the broken chairs and tables, milord.”
Grey eyed Henry. “Gravenhurst and I are now far too old and wise to engage in fisticuffs inside White’s.”Outsidewas implied, of course.
“I agree with too old.” Henry’s eyebrows rose in challenge.
Entertainment at last. “You know—” Grey ran a hand through his disheveled, wet, hair. “—I’m not sure why I put up with your insolence.”
“I believe, milord, it’s because you know I’m right, and our verbal sparring amuses you.”
“I’ll never admit such a thing,” Grey tossed over his shoulder as he strode away. He nodded to Lords Peter and Perkins, who gaped in return. He could count on those two dimwits to gossip all over Town about his appearance, which if nothing else, would cause his father a moment of discomfort. Grey smiled. The night wasn’t a total loss after all.
He pulled out a chair and sat, his trousers smacking wetly against the wood. The candlelight from the center of the table glowed on Gravenhurst’s tan skin and light hair and made him look wicked. Fitting. No telling what the man was up to now. “Do not,” he said as Gravenhurst started to snicker, “laugh or say a word to me until I’ve had a drink or I’ll rearrange your nose for you, which might be an improvement to the crooked thing.”
Grey grabbed the full glass Gravenhurst put in front of him and downed the liquor. A slow warmth started in his mouth and spread to his chest, pushing away a little of the iciness clinging to his damp skin. He would need a least two more drinks to warm himself and cool his irritation, but now he could talk civilly. Setting his glass down, he leaned back and allowed himself to relax for the first time in over an hour. “Your information was incorrect.”
“You don’t say?” Gravenhurst replied, a smile pulling at his lips. “I thought as much when I saw you enter. So her father’s back in Town?”
“He is indeed.”
“Bollocks. I’m sorry, Grey.”
“Think nothing of it. I almost broke my neck climbing down a rickety trellis and nearly froze to death swimming in their lake escaping, but don’t hold yourself accountable for giving me incorrect information.”
“Seems to me being caught by Lord Blackborn in his daughter’s bedroom would’ve been the perfect opportunity to finally get your father’s notice.”
“I stopped wanting my father’s notice ten years ago. I’m perfectly happy being the invisible second son of the mighty Duke of Ashdon.” He ignored the inner twitch that always occurred when he lied. Someday, he’d master that reaction.
