Chapter Twenty-four

He hadn’t been to the club in ages. He hoped getting back into his usual routine would help him regain his usual equanimity, help block Mrs. Honoria Duchamp, heroine of the downtrodden—correction: Miss Honoria Evans, the only woman with the power to devastate him—from his infernally distracted mind. So far, a few drinks, a few rounds of billiards, and he was starting, ever so slightly, to feel like his old self again.

“Hey, Devin, old boy! You’ve finally deigned to grace us with your presence again?” It was Carlton Ashleigh, a chum from his Eton days. And, of course, trailing close behind him were the Anderson brothers and the ever cynical John Hartley. After hearty handshakes and pats on the back all around, he ordered a round of drinks for his circle and settled into amiable conversation about sports and the railways and travel.

Just when he thought he’d managed to forget about Miss Honoria Evans, Ashleigh poked him in the side and said in a low voice, “I hear you’ve finally taken up a mistress, Devin. About bloody time.”

He opened his mouth to object, to deny, but didn’t get the chance.

“Didn’t you hear, though,” interjected Hartley, “that he got this wrong as well? Attached himself to an old crone when there’s any number of young, nubile widows and actresses and, heck, seamstresses he could choose from. A bluestocking and a reformer, to boot. I would have thought such a one would have a steel trap for a quim.”

Without thought, he leapt up and had John pinned against the nearest wall, his arm against the man’s throat.

“One should not speak of issues one knows nothing about. Moreover, one should never speak of a gentlewoman, any gentlewoman, so coarsely.” He heard himself growl, actually growl, but could not regret it.

Hartley’s surprise was evident as he held both hands up in mute surrender, perhaps because the poor fool couldn’t take a breath to speak. Equally surprised by his own ferocity, Alex stepped away.

“I apologize, Lord Devin. Truly, it was in jest.”

He nodded. Still, he would kill the next man who spoke of Nora thus. But even as he fumed, he saw that what she had said was accurate. Whatever their connection, their relationship, it would not be recognized by the world for what it was. Whatever affection she had for him—and he was sure she held strong feelings for him, despite her protestations—their association was tainted by the wider world. He would be condoned (clearly, he would be praised) for having a mistress; she would be castigated for being said mistress. No one would believe that he courted her, that he genuinely wanted her. But it mattered. For her sake. He did court her (after a fashion), he did try to woo her (after a fashion), and he most definitely wanted her with every fiber of his being.

And he wanted everyone else to recognize that she was worthy of such attentions.