Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Are you thinking of taking a more active role in the MCB?” Pruwett asked. He bit his lip. “We should love to have you.”


He didn’t look as if he would love to have Mark. He looked nervous.

“I have a great respect for you,” Pruwett added, and at least that seemed sincere.

“I’m flattered. I never expected anyone to take my work to heart, let alone a cadre of thousands of men. I’m grateful—and this is rather awkward—but the MCB is not precisely my sort of organization.”

Pruwett seemed to relax at that. “Well, I’m delighted that this is just a social call, then. I’ll promise not to overset any more liquids, if you’ll stay and have a drink with me.”

Mark sighed. “No. This is rather difficult to say. I know you mean well. But when I said the MCB is not my sort of organization, I meant…I dislike what you have done.”

The color ran from Pruwett’s face. Mark felt as if he were kicking a puppy, but there was no easy way to deliver the news that he carried.

“The teachings of the MCB imply that women are the enemy, that men must avoid them. That sort of attitude gives rise to the precise stigma that all good men should avoid.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s not the intent. It’s about developing a sense of camaraderie, about finding things to bind good men together.”

“Yes, but you do it by resorting to blatant insult and exclusion.” Mark frowned. “I don’t understand why you can’t just…just remain chaste without a club.”

“There must be something for men to do together. Elsewise, it’s back to the brothels in groups for fun.”

“And it’s fun to tell everyone else how many days it has been since you’ve been unchaste?” Mark shook his head.

“Not fun—necessary to establish appropriate standards of accountability.” Pruwett adjusted his spectacles. “Without that, we’d have nothing but hypocrisy. The meetings, the hand signals—they’re all necessary, sir, to bring men together, to make them want to choose chastity over…over ruination.”

“Huh,” Mark said. There was something distractingly odd about the man’s eyes.

“Look around you.” Pruwett was warming to his subject matter. “All these men here—they have something to do. But think of the third sons, boys who are given too much money and too much license. They’re wasted, utterly, given no calling, no place in life. They drift aimlessly. They’ll never sit in Parliament, never serve on a committee. They’ve nothing to show for themselves but their family name and a few idle pleasures. I wanted to give those men something to do.” He swallowed. “I wanted to give myself something to do.”

“Are you saying you started the MCB because you were bored?”

Pruwett’s eye’s widened behind his spectacles. And, with that, Mark realized precisely what had bothered him about the man’s eyes. Usually, glasses made a man’s eyes look owlish, distorted by the magnification. But Pruwett’s eyes were exactly the normal size.

Mark reached out and plucked the man’s spectacles from his face, lifted the lens to his eyes.

“Sir…”

“These are plain glass.” Mark looked over at Pruwett. Without his spectacles, his nose looked larger. Mark imagined him without that beard… “Davies?” Mark asked in disbelief. “Peter Davies?”

Pruwett—or was it Davies?—crumpled into his chair, as if all the starch had deserted him. Mark had known the man at Oxford. Davies had been a…well, he’d been something of a rake. He’d poked fun at Mark often enough.

“Is this some kind of an elaborate jest?” Mark asked.

Pruwett-Davies reached out and snatched his spectacles back. He fitted them on his nose primly. “Jest?” He sounded affronted. “I’ve spent the last year of my life building the MCB from the ground up, without any help from you, I might add.”

“I know what you were like.”

“I know what I was like, too.” He hid his face in his hands. “I’ll thank you not to remind me. I was an irresponsible ass.” He let out a great sigh, and his shoulders slumped.

Mark felt a short-lived twinge of sympathy.