Michael looked at him. “Is that why you were absent from England for so long? Because Jessica was married to Benedict?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“I had no idea. You concealed it well.”
Waving one hand carelessly, Alistair said, “I was adept at hiding it from myself as well. I convinced myself that my interest was base and easily resolved by indulgence. In hindsight, that self-deception was probably wise. If I’d known then that she would turn me so completely around and inside out, I might have run in terror.”
“You do seem different,” Michael mused, studying him. “Less agitated. Calmer. Tamed perhaps?”
“Bloody hell, lower your voice when you say such things.”
Raucous laughter drew Michael’s attention back over Alistair’s shoulder. “Excuse me a moment.”
Alistair sighed and shook his head, taking another drink. In truth, he didn’t understand Regmont, either. The only reason Alistair was sitting in Remington’s was because he didn’t have Jessica to go home to.
“Lord Baybury.”
He looked up at Lucien Remington and smiled. “Remington. How are you?”
“Too well. May I join you a moment?”
“Absolutely.”
“I won’t monopolize much of your time. If I’m not home within the hour, my wife will come fetch me herself.” The proprietor smiled and took an empty seat next to Michael’s vacated one. “Forgive me in advance for my boldness. As you might be aware, I know a great many things about every gentleman granted membership here.”
“You would have to.”
“Yes.” Remington’s eyes, renowned for their rare amethyst color, lit with humor. “For example, I know you and I are alike in ways others wouldn’t suspect, and I can guess from that affinity how difficult your present situation must be for you.”
Alistair stilled. Remington was the bastard son of a duke. Although he was His Grace’s oldest child, it was his younger legitimate brother who would inherit the title and entailed properties.
“Damnation,” Alistair muttered, understanding that Remington knew of his bastardy—a secret only his mother, Masterson, and Jessica were privy to. He’d heard the rumors about the depth and breadth of information on file for each member of Remington’s, but he could not have imagined this level of knowledge. Which led him to wondering if Remington knew who his father was …
“If you ever require assistance or just a sympathetic ear,” Remington said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just shaken Alistair to the core, “I would be honored to assist you.”
“We bastards must stick together?” Alistair queried, refraining from asking questions he wasn’t sure he wished to know the answers to.
“Something of that nature.”
“Thank you.” There were some men worth keeping in one’s corner; Lucien Remington was one of them.
Shouts came from the bar. Remington pushed agilely to his feet. “If you will excuse, my lord. I must see to a problem that has become overly troublesome.”
Alistair looked over his shoulder at Regmont’s boisterous associates. “A moment, please, Remington. Regarding your problem … In light of the fact that his wife is soon to be my sister-in-law, should I assume he might be problematic for me as well?”
“Yes.” Remington gave a regal bow of his head and departed.
Standing, Alistair looked for Michael and found him lounging insouciantly against the bar—near to Regmont’s group, but not a part of it. He went to him. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet.” Michael reached into the inner pocket of his coat for the silver case that held his cheroots. Nearby, Regmont laughed and began to protest Remington’s admonition that he quiet down or quit the room.
“This isn’t wise.” Alistair could feel the ill will building in the air around them like a brewing tempest. Regmont was inebriated to the point of bravado and stupidity, and Michael was clearly spoiling for a fight.
Lord Taylor, one of Regmont’s friends, stumbled backward. He bumped Michael, whose cheroot case and kerchief were dislodged from his hand. They fell to the floor, expensive cheroots rolling free of the opened case.
“Mind yourself!” Michael snapped, bending to retrieve his belongings.
Regmont made a cutting comment to Taylor, then crouched unsteadily to assist Michael. He picked up a cheroot, then the kerchief. He stilled, sobering as he examined the folded linen.
Michael held out his hand for it. “Thank you.”
The earl’s thumb stroked over the letters embroidered into the corner. “Interesting monogram.”
Alistair looked closer, cursing silently at the unmistakable “H” stitched in red thread.
“If you would, please, Regmont,” Michael demanded.
“I don’t think I will.” Regmont met Michael’s gaze, then Alistair’s, before tucking the kerchief in his own pocket. “I believe this belongs to me.”
The tension that gripped Michael was palpable. Alistair set his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed a warning. The liquor on the earl’s breath was strong enough to be pervasive, and Alistair recognized the look of mayhem in his bloodshot eyes—the devil was riding Regmont hard, spurring him into a dangerous place.
Michael stood. “I want that back, Regmont.”
“Come and get it.”
Michael’s hands fisted. Remington stepped between the two men. The proprietor was tall and fit, perfectly capable of interceding physically, but he was also flanked by three liveried members of his staff. “You can take this downstairs, gentlemen,” he warned, diverting them to the pugilist rings below, “or you can take it elsewhere, but there will be no violence in here.”
“Or we can take it to the field,” Michael challenged. “Name your seconds, Regmont.”
“Bloody hell,” Alistair muttered.
“Taylor and Blackthorne.”
Michael nodded. “Baybury and Merrick will discuss the particulars with them tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it,” Regmont said, baring his teeth in a semblance of a smile.
“Not nearly as much as I.”