When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 3





One did not complain about having in abundance that which others wished desperately to obtain.

So Grace did not complain about her aching toes, because they were the result of enjoying far too many gentlemen’s attentions. She merely settled herself on the plush ottoman in the ladies’ retiring room and lifted a swollen foot, so her lady’s maid could replace her worn-out slippers with new ones. It was the second time this evening that she’d had to retire from the ballroom, promising a disappointed gentleman that she would be more than happy to entertain him in her mother’s parlor the following afternoon. She did not reveal that he wouldn’t be the only one in attendance. She tried to leave a few dances open so she could have a moment’s respite, but the gentlemen were simply so frightfully insistent that their night would be incomplete without a turn about the ballroom floor with her in their arms.

So she succumbed to their charms.

And they were charming. Every last one of them. Which was part of her dilemma. How to separate charm from con.

She had spent a good deal of the night searching the shadows for Lovingdon, but as far as she could tell, he had not come. The message that he sent a few days earlier—He’ll know your favorite flower—had given her hope that he would be on hand at Claybourne’s ball to assist her in discerning who was a fortune hunter and who was not. She couldn’t assume that just because a man’s coffers were empty he was only after her fortune. On her own she had eliminated some of the men who were. They always had greedy little eyes and spoke of all the things they could accomplish with her dowry in hand.

A rather poor courtship technique.

But most of her suitors were not as overt and rarely mentioned her monetary assets. Courtship was an art, and they had perfected it. As she was the lady of the Season with the largest dowry, she drew the most attention—which did not endear her to many of the other ladies. They knew they would be getting the cast-offs.

With a sigh, she stood. “Thank you, Felicity.” While most in the aristocracy did not usually thank servants for doing their tasks, Grace had grown up hearing her mother constantly thanking servants. A product of the streets, her mother took nothing for granted and treated everyone as though they mattered because to her they did. She’d passed that attribute on to Grace.

Felicity helped to straighten her hair, to repin what could be contained. Grace’s hair was so curly that the strands were often escaping their constraints. With a last look in the mirror, Grace turned and nearly ran into Lady Cornelia. The woman possessed all the curves that Grace didn’t.


“Please release Lord Ambrose from your spell,” Lady Cornelia whispered.

“Pardon?”

Lady Cornelia glanced around as though she expected demons to be lurking in the corners, but the only other two ladies in the room were busy chattering while their maids repinned their hair.

“Lord Ambrose—if you were to let him know that he had no chance of gaining your favor—he might look elsewhere for the funds he needs in order to continue raising his horses.”

“You fancy him?” Grace asked.

“He is not so hard on the eyes. I will admit to favoring him. And I’m terribly fond of horses. His in particular, as they are the most beautiful thoroughbreds. And he has a lovely estate. I would like very much to be his countess.”

Although love was woefully absent from the lady’s reasons, Grace studied her card. It wasn’t her place to judge what someone else desired for happiness. “Who do you have for the fifteenth dance?”

“No one. I’ve had all of three dances claimed. My dowry is nowhere near as large as yours, my father is not as powerful. I have atrocious black hair and am as white as my mother’s tablecloth. My brother says I look like a ghoul.”

Grace smiled. “Brothers are hideous, aren’t they?”

“You’re lucky yours aren’t about this Season.”

“I’m very lucky indeed.” Striving to strengthen the bond between them, Grace wrapped her fingers around Lady Cornelia’s arm. “Just before the fifteenth dance, meet me by the doors leading onto the terrace. I suspect my feet will be aching too badly for me to enjoy the quadrille. Perhaps you would be kind enough to dance with Lord Ambrose in my stead.”

Lady Cornelia beamed, and Grace didn’t think she looked at all like a ghoul. She thought she more closely resembled an angel. “The other girls are jealous of the attentions you get, you know.”

“I know. But we always want what someone else has.”

“What do you want?”

Grace gently squeezed her arm. “I want you to have Lord Ambrose.”

Before Lady Cornelia could pepper her further, Grace walked from the room. She wasn’t about to admit to anyone—other than Lovingdon—that she desired love. She didn’t want to be painted as a pathetic creature who doubted her own self-worth, but there were moments when she feared love would be denied her.

She glided down the stairs that led to the first landing. Lord Vexley was standing there, his elbow resting on the first baluster. He was quite possibly one of the most handsome men she’d ever known. His black hair was styled to perfection. Unlike hers, none of the strands ever rebelled. His deep blue eyes sparkled, his smile was broad and welcoming.

“I was afraid I was going to have to go up those stairs and drag you out of that private room where ladies secret away to do and say who knows what,” he teased as she neared.

“You’re waiting for me?”

“I am. The next dance is mine, and unlike some of the other gents, I’m not willing to give up a waltz with the most beautiful woman here.” He extended his arm as she moved off the last step.

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “You flatter me, my lord.”

“I believe we would make a remarkable pair.”

He escorted her into the ballroom just as the music was drifting into silence. Very well-timed planning. And he was so deuced handsome. She did wish she felt more for him than mild pleasure at being in his company. Unfortunately none of the gentlemen courting her stirred her heart. It beat its same constant, steady rhythm whether she was thinking about them, dancing with them, or conversing. Nothing was terribly wrong with any of them, but neither was anything terribly right.

“Did my tulips arrive after Ainsley’s ball?” he asked.

“They did.” Not her favorites, but a close second. “As did the chocolates.” She had not bothered to send those around to Lovingdon. She was willing to go only so far to convince him she was in need of his assistance, and giving up chocolate was one step too far. Although she wondered if they may have made a difference toward securing his cooperation. In his youth, chocolate had been his favorite treat, but then he was not who he had once been. If he was, he would have put her needs above his and been willing to assist her. On the other hand he had responded to the arrival of the flowers, although not to the extent she would have wished, but better than not at all.

It occurred to her that in order to gain further help from him, she was going to have to take more drastic measures.

Although it was long past midnight Grace walked with confidence along the dimly lit narrow corridor, her skirts rustling over the thick carpeting. She expected that her arrival would be frowned upon by those she would soon be encountering, but then she’d never cared one whit about obtaining their approval. Neither had they cared about gaining hers. They did as they pleased, when they pleased, with whom they pleased. While they might not want to have anything to do with her, she was not going to give them a choice. Not tonight anyway.

They were men, after all, and as she’d recently learned, a practiced smile accompanied by a fluttering of the eyelashes could turn the most intelligent of men into mindless dolts, who could be led wherever a lady wished to lead. Her problem, however, was that she didn’t want a man who was so easily controlled, nor did she want one who sought to control her. She wanted a partner in life, one who saw her as an equal, even if the law didn’t.

She finally reached the door located within the darkest of corners. Against the thick mahogany, she delivered three sharp knuckle raps, a pause, and two more, the last dispensed more quickly than the first set. At eye level a tiny door, a small opening in the much larger door, creaked open. A man peered out. The shadows effectively hid from her the details of his face. She would not have been surprised to find him wearing a mask.

Much ado was always made about secretive meetings.

“Only those knowing the special word may pass through here,” he growled, his voice deep and rumbling, as though he were auditioning for the role of ogre in a child’s fairy tale.

Ah, the dramatics. She was allowed to come and play here on her birthday, and so she knew how to gain entry.

“Feagan.”

Homage paid to the kidsman who had once managed the den of child thieves that included her mother.

The oaf barring her way grunted. A lock clanked as it was released, then he swung the door open and Grace waltzed past him through the narrow portal. He was a big, hulking brute whom she had never encountered before. She suspected his size alone intimidated quite a few, and his large meaty fists would intimidate anyone else.

“I’ll take you to the others—” he began.

“No need.”

She moved on, parting heavy velvet draperies that appeared black with the absence of light, though she knew they were a deep, rich burgundy. Sitting areas and tables adorned with decanters were in this section, but no one was making use of the lounging area in which to sulk, which meant that in all likelihood the games had not been going on long enough for anyone to have been separated from too many of his coins. Parting another set of draperies, she glided through—

“No! God, Grace, what are you doing here?” Drake Darling came up out of his chair at a large round table covered in green baize. It appeared he had repeatedly tunneled his fingers through his dark hair, a sign that the evening was not going his way. He managed Dodger’s; she suspected a day would come when he would own it.


Her eyes momentarily stung in the smoke-hazed room. Tables with more decanters lined the walls. Servants liveried in red stood at the ready. One tall fellow moved toward her. Drake held up a hand to stay him.

“I’ve come to play,” she stated succinctly.

Viscount Langdon, son to the Earl of Claybourne, groaned while glaring at her. “I’m not in the mood to lose tonight.”

“Then give up your chair and be off,” she said. Knowing that Langdon would do neither, she signaled to the nearest footman, whom she recognized from earlier visits. Without hesitation he brought her a chair, apparently well aware which side his bread was buttered on.

Amidst grumbling, three of the gents at the table scooted their chairs over to make room for her. The fourth moved nary a muscle, merely focused his amber gaze on her as though he could see clear through to her soul. His perusal caused an uncomfortable knot to form behind her breastbone. His dark blond hair curled where neck met broad shoulder. The darker bristle shadowing his jaw made him appear dangerous. She had the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly why she was there and the game she was about to play. “Lovingdon.”

“This particular game is invitation only.”

His rough voice washed over her, fairly skittered along her flesh. Why was it that no other gentleman’s voice had quite the same impact on her?

“As my mother is part owner of this establishment, I believe the invitation is implied.”

Grace settled into the chair, which put them at eye level or nearly so. She was relieved to find him here, though the men within this room were men not so different from him. They played by special rules. Jackets, waistcoats, neck cloths were discarded. Sleeves were rolled up past elbows. She was astonished that they didn’t insist upon playing without shirts. They were all skilled cheaters, their upbringing influenced by at least one person who had survived the streets. They had all grown up fascinated by cons, dodges, sleight of hand, and misdirection. Among the aristocracy, they were uncommon, but among themselves—regardless of title, rank, or heritage—they were equal.

Well, almost so. Lovingdon, she’d always felt, was a cut above. She could not help but notice now the firm, solid muscle of his forearms that hinted at firm, solid muscle elsewhere. She suspected he could pick her up with very little effort. Not that she wanted him to. All she wanted was for him to guide her toward love.

“How did you know we were here?” the Duke of Avendale asked.

She turned her attention to the dark-haired, dark-eyed man sitting beside her. Like Lovingdon, he’d inherited his title at a tender age. His connection to her family came through the man who had married his widowed mother: William Graves, one of London’s finest physicians. “None of you were at Claybourne’s ball. What else was I to think?” A heartbeat of silence before she continued. “You do realize, do you not, that with your absence you are breaking the heart of many a mother—and daughter, for that matter?”

“There are many lords in need of a wife. I’m certain we’re not missed.”

“But none come from such powerful and wealthy families as you lot.” Her gaze skipped back over to Lovingdon. Focusing his attention on the center of the table, he rolled a silver coin under and over his fingers, creating an undulating wave of light and dark again and again. She wondered if he was remembering when he had attended balls, when he had fallen in love.

The joy of it, the magic of it.

She desperately yearned for that joy, that magic. It had been sorely absent last Season, and this Season so far was little more than a repeat of the last.

“You’re not here to play matchmaker, are you?” Langdon asked. He had his father’s black hair and silver eyes. Every Earl of Claybourne had looked out at the world through eyes of pewter.

She laughed lightly. “No, I’m here to win your money. I’m in need of funds for one of the foundling homes.”

The coin rolling faster over his fingers, Lovingdon grumbled, “I shall gladly make a donation if you’ll but leave us in peace.”

She gave him a cocky smile. “I’d rather take your money.” And with any luck would take a great deal more than that. “It’s such fun to beat you all, and I’m in need of entertainment this evening. I found the ball rather dull.”

“My mother will be disappointed to hear that,” Langdon said.

“It wasn’t her fault I assure you.” She eyed him. “I’m rather surprised she let you get away with not attending.”

“I feigned illness.”

“Well, she shan’t hear the truth from me, unless of course I find myself ousted from here.”

He bowed his head slightly. “You may play as long as I have coin.”

Considering that his father was also part owner of Dodger’s, she suspected he had a good many coins. She reached into her reticule, withdrew her blunt, housed in a red velvet pouch, and set it before Drake. He had grown up within the bosom of her family, was more brother than friend, but he studied her now as though he didn’t quite trust her. She knew she was rather skilled at appearing innocent when she wasn’t. It was the reason that the blame for little pranks—which she usually initiated—fell to her two older brothers and not her, the reason they suffered through punishments while she went blithely on her way. She was the one who had inherited their mother’s quick mind and nimble fingers. Her brothers had inherited their father’s cunning—and they always found a way to get even with her for causing them trouble. But as she was the youngest, they loved her all the same. And she adored them.

As they were presently traveling the Continent, they would not be interfering with her plans. Drake, however, was another matter entirely.

He finally pushed a stack of colorful wooden chips her way. Leaning forward, she scooped her hands around them and—

“You’re not serious about allowing her to stay,” Lovingdon said.

“She’s as fine a gambler as you are,” Drake replied, “and her money spends just as easily.”

“If I wanted a woman’s company I would seek one.”

“Pretend I’m simply one of the boys, Lovingdon,” Grace put in. “You seemed to have no trouble accomplishing that goal when I was younger.”

His gaze took a leisurely sojourn over her, and she cursed the tiny pricks of pleasure that erupted along her bared skin. She wanted to be unaffected by his perusal. Instead she found herself shamelessly wishing to reveal more, to bare everything, to see a look of adoration in his eyes, when she feared that what she might very well see was revulsion. His first wife had been perfection. There had not been a handsomer couple in all of Great Britain.

He reached for his tumbler of amber liquid, his grip so hard that she could see the white of his knuckles. “Fine,” he ground out. “But don’t expect us to cease our smoking, drinking, or swearing because you’re here.”

She tilted her chin at a haughty angle. “Have I ever?” She glanced around the table. “So, gentlemen, what are we playing this evening?”

And with that, she began rolling her kidskin glove down from above her elbow to her wrist, where her pulse thrummed.

She was up to something. Lovingdon wasn’t certain what, but he’d bet his last farthing that she had some scheme in mind.


Very deliberately, very slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she tugged on each fingertip of her glove and leisurely peeled off the kidskin, exposing her wrist, her palm, her fingers. So slender, so pale. It had been years since the sun had kissed her skin. He wondered if any gentlemen had this evening.

She moved her bared hand over to the other glove, and he cursed her actions and his fascination with the gathering of material, the revealing of skin. Bloody Christ. It was only an arm. Her pale blue ball gown with blue piping and embroidered roses left her shoulders and neck enticingly bare, but the upper swells of her breasts were demurely covered, and yet he found the unrevealed more alluring than everything revealed by any courtesan he’d visited of late.

His world tilted off its axis.

Even when she’d come to see him the week before, he’d still gazed upon her as a young girl, not a woman. But it was a woman whose sultry eyes met his, whose pouting mouth was waiting to be kissed.

With a great deal of effort, he righted his world, setting it back properly on its course, and mentally kicked himself for even being intrigued by that show of flesh. She was a dear friend, no more than that. He shouldn’t find anything about her desirable. His younger version would not have noticed. However, he knew he was no longer who he had once been.

But then apparently neither was Grace. She could have taken the time to change into something less enticing before beginning her journey to the club. They would no doubt be here all night, which she would have known. She knew their habits, their sins, as well as they did. But she had chosen instead to make a grand entrance.

For what purpose?

He knew she had an aversion to losing, but was she really here to gain funds for a foundling home? He doubted it immensely. All she had to do was ask and they’d each reach into their pockets to find their last coin. No, something else was afoot, and he suspected it had to do with her midnight visit to his residence last week.

Realizing that he’d been studying her for too long, Lovingdon lowered his eyes to his two cards, one down-turned, one up, that had been dealt as soon as her gloves were secure in her reticule. With this lot, no hiding places were allowed. They were playing stud poker. Grace’s brothers had taken a voyage to New Orleans and discovered it while there. When they returned and revealed the intricacies of the game, it became a favorite among their friends and added to the repertoire of entertainments at Dodger’s Drawing Room.

Downstairs, however, it wasn’t nearly as cutthroat, nor were the stakes as high. He wondered if he should mention to Greystone that he was giving his daughter far too much allowance if she had enough blunt to allow her into their private games.

More cards were dealt, more wagers made, until Grace won the round. Her smile of victory was bright enough to light the room without the gaslights burning. The others groaned, which only caused her lips to widen further in triumph. “You never know when to stop betting, Langdon,” she said, her voice laced with teasing that skittered down Lovingdon’s spine. When was the last time he’d laughed, or even smiled, for that matter?

“You should play my father,” Langdon replied. “I hear he never loses at cards.”

“Grace seldom does either,” Drake said, beginning to deal the next round. “Even when she played silly card games as a child that required little more than matching two pictures, she always managed to beat me.”

“All these years I thought you let me win.”

Drake did little more than wink at her. He had begun his life as a street urchin until he was brought into the bosom of Grace’s family. He never spoke of his life before, but there were times when Lovingdon could see that it weighed heavily on him. He was devoted to his work here, ensuring that the gaming hell made a tidy profit, his way of repaying those who had given him so much.

“Anything interesting occur at Claybourne’s ball?” Avendale asked.

Grace lifted one slender alabaster shoulder. “If you want to know what happens at the balls, you should attend.”

“I don’t truly care. I was simply trying to make polite conversation.”

“Trying to distract me from noticing the cards dealt, more like. Although I did hear that a certain young lady was spotted in the garden with a particular older gentleman.”

“Who?”

She gave him a pointed look. “I’m not one to gossip.”

“Then why even mention it?”

She smiled, that alluring smile that Lovingdon suspected brought some men to their knees. “To distract you. Now you’ll be wondering if perhaps it was a lady who might have made you an excellent duchess.”

“I have no interest in marriage. I daresay none of us at this table, with the exception of you, do.”

“You all require heirs.”

“There’s no rush,” Lovingdon said laconically. “My father was quite old when he sired me.”

“Which left your mother a young widow.”

“Marrying young is no guarantee that you won’t be left alone.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. After two years the bite of loss was still sharp. His mother encouraged him to move on. She had done it quickly enough after his father died, but then theirs had not been a love match. No, she had not known love until Jack Dodger, the notorious public owner of Dodger’s Drawing Room, had been named Lovingdon’s guardian.

Grace blushed, and he suspected if she still possessed her freckles that they would have disappeared within the redness of her face. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I . . . I was thoughtless there.”

“Think nothing of it. My words were uncalled for.” Tension descended to surround them. No one ever spoke of Juliette. Sometimes it was as though she had existed only in his mind. Of late he found it increasingly difficult to recall her scent, the exact shade of her hair, the precise blue of her eyes. Had they been a sky at dawn or sunset?

Grace turned her attention to her cards, and he found himself watching as her bright blush receded. Her face would be warm to the touch, but then he suspected all of her would be warm. He should leave the cards and find himself a woman, but tonight he had no interest in the women he’d been visiting recently. Yes, they brought surcease to his flesh, but he failed to feel alive when he was with them. He went through the motions, but it seemed for the past two years, in all aspects of his life, he’d merely been going through the motions. Putting one foot in front of the other without thought or purpose. He refocused on his pair of jacks, holding dark thoughts at bay.

It came as no surprise to him that neither he nor Grace won that hand. The game seemed trite and yet it was a relief to concentrate on something that didn’t truly matter. He had enough money in his coffers that losing was no hardship. He had been brought up to adhere to his father’s belief that debt was the work of the devil. A man paid as he went. He never owed another man anything because debts had a way of bringing a man down when he least expected it.

The night wore on, conversation dwindling to nothing as everyone concentrated on the cards they were dealt. Lovingdon watched as half his chips made their way into Grace’s stash. It should have irritated the devil out of him, but he was intrigued by the glow of her cheeks and the sparkle of her blue eyes with each round that she won. That she cared so much about something so trivial when he cared not at all about the most important things . . .


The present hand showed Grace with two queens and a jack, while Lovingdon showed a king, a ten, and a nine. Drake and Langdon had withdrawn from the round earlier. The final cards were now placed facedown in front of the remaining players.

Graced tapped her finger on a card. “I shall bet fifty.” She tossed her chips onto the pile in the center of the table as though the amount was of no consequence, but then it wasn’t really the money that enticed any of them into playing. It was the thrill of beating the others. The chips simply served as a measurement of success.

“I believe I’m finished for the night,” Avendale said, turning all his cards facedown.

Lovingdon peered at his last card, shifted his gaze to Grace. She wore confidence with the ease that most women donned a cloak. He met her fifty and raised her fifty more.

Without hesitation she met his fifty. “I want to increase the pot,” she said.

“Then do so.”

“I wish to wager something a little different.”

He wasn’t the only one who came to attention at that. He could fairly feel the curiosity and interest rolling off the others. He hoped he had managed to keep his own fascination from showing. “Explain.”

She licked her lips, the delicate muscles of her throat moving slightly as she swallowed. “We each wager a boon. If your cards beat mine, you may ask anything of me and I shall comply. If my cards beat yours, you will honor my request.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Drake said. “That’s not the way the game is played. Use your chips or forfeit.”

“Hold on,” Lovingdon drawled, studying her intently. The glow that alighted in her eyes, the fine blush beneath her skin. “I wager she’s been waiting for this moment all night. I say we let her have it.”

“Why do I feel as though I’ve stepped into the middle of some muck here?” Drake asked. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Lovingdon rolled his lucky coin over and under his fingers. “I have a fairly good idea.”

He had to give her credit: she didn’t flinch, but met his gaze head on. So he was right. She planned to win his assistance.

“You’re not seriously considering calling her on it,” Drake insisted. “You have no idea what she’ll ask.”

“I doubt she’ll ask anything that I would find revolting. The danger is to her, for she knows not what I might ask, and my standards are not as high as hers.”

“You can’t ask anything that would be unseemly or might put her reputation at risk,” Drake insisted.

“Are there rules to this wager?” Lovingdon asked her.

She angled her chin. “None at all.”

“I won’t allow this,” Drake said.

“The lady is willing to suffer the consequences of so rash an action, so you have no choice,” Lovingdon reminded him.

“I rule here. It’s my gaming house,” Drake insisted.

“It’s not actually. It’s owned by my stepfather, Langdon’s father, and Grace’s mother. As much as I respect how well you manage it, I must also respect that the lady has the right to wager as she wants. As long as she understands that she will not be at all pleased with my request should I win.”

Drake leaned toward her. “Grace, this is an unwise course of action. You have no earthly clue what he might demand of you.”

Never removing her gaze from Lovingdon, she smiled, and the slight upturn of her lips nearly undid him. She was daring him to do something wicked. Oh, he thought of the fun he could have teaching her the ways of men with scandalous reputations—

His thoughts slammed to a halt as though he had hit a brick wall. She was Lady Grace Mabry, lover of kittens, thief of biscuit tins, and climber of trees. What the devil was he doing thinking of her wrapped in silk sheets? He should have his back flayed, and he suspected Drake would be more than willing to do just that if his friend realized the journey his wayward thoughts had just taken.

“That you would think he might do something dastardly has piqued my curiosity beyond all measure,” Grace said. “Still, I’m willing to wager a boon as long as you, Lovingdon, understand that you will not be happy with what I request, but you will be obligated to fulfill it until I am satisfied with the outcome.”

He almost purred that he could most certainly satisfy her. He felt a thrumming of excitement, the first bit that he’d felt in a good long while. It was odd to think of all the drinking, gambling, and bedding he’d done, and the thrill of it paling in comparison to this one moment, the possibility of beating her . . . and the chance he wouldn’t and that her request would no doubt set his blood to boiling, because he had a damned good idea what she wanted of him. It was strange to be so alert, so on edge after being in a fog for so long. He nodded with certainty. “By all means. I call your wager.”

Bless her, but she looked triumphant and he knew what she held, before she turned up the first card she had received and the queen of hearts winked up at him. “Three queens.”

“I can count, my lady.” He flipped over both of his downturned cards and watched as her face drained of all color. Three kings sealed her fate.

“I see.” She lifted her sapphire gaze to his, narrowed her eyes, licked her lips. “That is quite astonishing.”

“I tried to warn you off.”

She nodded, her jaw so tight that he thought she might be grinding her teeth down to nubs. “Your request of me?”

He would not feel guilty, because the cards had favored him and not her. He would not. He was well aware of the other gentlemen waiting on bated breath for his pronouncement. While he was known to take advantage of situations, it irked him to realize that they thought he would take advantage of her, a girl he considered a sister in spite of the fact they shared no blood. “You know what I require.”

“And what exactly is that?” Drake asked.

“Something quite innocent, I assure you,” she said as she stood, as graceful and proud as a queen who had been disappointed by her minions but refused to succumb to tears. With the exception of Lovingdon, all the gentlemen stood as well. “Drake, will you see about arranging a carriage for me? I sent my driver home earlier.”

“I’ve had quite enough of the evening,” Lovingdon said, shoving back his chair and coming to his feet. “I’ll see you home.”