glass from Tobias’s fingertips. “Because I hide it so you lot don’t drink it all.” Chuckling, he went to the cabinet where the Phoenix Club’s butler restocked the supply every day.
“Deane is frustrated by his ward,” Lucien said. “And my sister, who has befriended his ward.”
“Is Lady Cassandra causing trouble?” Wexford called from the sideboard.
Lucien’s brows pitched into a deep V. “Why would you say that?”
Wexford returned with two glasses and handed one to Tobias, then the other to Lucien. “Because she’s your sister.”
Tobias snickered. “He has a point. And she did take my ward into Lady Billingsworth’s card room.”
Turning when he’d reached the liquor cabinet again, Wexford swept up his glass of presumably Irish whisky and started back toward them. “Lady Billingsworth? I hope you didn’t give your ward much pin money, Deane.”
“I didn’t give her any. She was only able to play because Lady Cassandra supported her.”
Casting himself into a chair and sipping his drink, Wexford looked to Lucien. “Sounds as though your sister is causing trouble.” His vivid blue gaze darkened. “I know all about troublesome sisters.” Because he had four of them.
“She’s not, but I’ll talk to her nevertheless.”
“No need. Aldington said he would do it.”
“You spoke to him about this?” Lucien asked. “Ah, he was at the musicale. I’m so glad I’m not the heir,” he murmured before taking a drink with a thoroughly smug expression on his face.
“He was, but we discussed the matter at White’s. I stopped in there before coming here.”
Wexford goggled at him. “Why?”
“To improve his reputation,” Lucien said with a snort. “As if a few visits to White’s to drink with my brother will erase the past two years of his debauchery.”
Tobias tossed a glare to each of them. “I’m beginning to think your brother was better company.” This earned him laughter from both men. Tobias glanced toward the door. “Where’s MacNair? He’s less annoying than you two.”
“He had business outside London,” Lucien said. “How was my brother?”
Sipping his whisky, Tobias settled into his chair. “He had a headache. And he asked if I kept my mistress.”
In the process of lifting his glass to his lips, Lucien’s movements arrested as he pinned Tobias with a puzzled stare. “He did?”
“I found it odd too. I asked if he kept his, and he assured me, quite sternly, that he’s never had one.”
“That is certainly true. At least to my knowledge.” Lucien took the drink Tobias had interrupted. “Perhaps I should accompany him and my father with Cassandra to the queen’s drawing room tomorrow so I can pester him about why he asked you such a thing.”
“You can’t do that.” Tobias looked at him in exasperation. “I don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”
“But we are,” Wexford pointed out. He looked to Lucien. “You’d actually go to the drawing room just to investigate that?”
“Not really. I would be utterly redundant. So glad I’m not the heir,” he muttered again.
“I thought Her Majesty rather liked you,” Tobias said.
“She does, but that doesn’t mean I need to attend her drawing room and watch a score of young ladies preen.” Lucien’s shoulder twitched. He’d never been interested in participating in Society or the Marriage Mart. His father, the duke, wanted him to wed, but as the spare, Lucien felt no pressure to do so.
Wexford lifted his glass in a toast. “Hear, hear.” Lucien joined him in drinking.
Tobias frowned at his whisky. He missed the days when he was not consumed with thoughts of marriage, whether his own or that of Miss Wingate. He’d feel much better when she was settled and no longer his concern.
“Can either of you think of a well-regarded gentleman who is looking for a wife? He doesn’t need to be titled, but he must have a good reputation.” Tobias wouldn’t marry her off to a scoundrel.
He realized many in Society regarded him that way, or as a rogue, at least. Dammit. He was trying. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a week, and he’d focused the bulk of his energy on establishing his presence in the Lords.
“For Miss Wingate, I presume?” Lucien asked. “I’m trying to think of gentlemen who’ve joined the club this Season.”
“What about Witney’s spare? I met him at Brooks’s the other night.” Wexford waved his hand. “Yes, I still go there on occasion. Call me out if you must.”
Lucien laughed and cast a look of mock disdain at Tobias. “At least it isn’t White’s.”
“Anyway, his name’s Lord Gregory Blakemore,” Wexford continued. “He’s an unassuming sort. He’s been