sleeping, cries out, usually profanely.”
Both of his tablemates laughed.
“What is so amusing?” Lucien asked as he took the chair next to MacNair. The footman promptly delivered a fourth glass.
“Overton was just telling us about his ward’s unfortunate chaperone.”
Lucien’s dark eyes widened. “How can that be? Miss Lancaster is excellent.”
“Not that chaperone,” Tobias clarified. “The one from Shropshire. It’s a very good thing you introduced me to Miss Lancaster. Mrs. Tucket would not have been acceptable here in London.”
Lucien’s brows climbed. “I see. I look forward to hearing what Lady Pickering thinks of Mrs. Tucket.”
Lady Pickering was the sponsor who would shepherd Miss Wingate through her Season. A close friend of Lucien’s family, she was a well-respected lady in Society with excellent connections. The only person Tobias could have asked—and did—was his grandmother and, as expected, she’d refused to come to London. Lucien had rushed to the rescue, as he often did.
“Mrs. Tucket wasn’t very enthused to learn of Miss Lancaster,” Tobias said. “She feels as if she’s being pushed aside.”
“Which she is,” Wexford pointed out helpfully.
“I can’t imagine how she’ll react to Lady Pickering tomorrow.” Tobias couldn’t decide if he was dreading or anticipating it.
“Lady Pickering has the patience of a particular bird of prey,” Lucien said with a smile.
“And the brutality of one if you cross her.” MacNair’s shoulders twitched as he picked up his brandy, and Lucien laughed. “Not that I’ve ever been on her bad side, mind you. I think I’d run from London and never return.” MacNair leaned toward Lucien and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “Why hasn’t she ever responded to our invitation to join the club?”
All four of them were members of the Phoenix Club’s secret invitation committee. They, along with Mrs. Renshaw, who managed the lady’s side of the club, and two anonymous members, decided who within Society and without were invited to join.
Lucien shrugged. “There are those who look down at the club.” He also kept his voice low.
Wexford snorted. “Because they’re jealous. That can’t apply to Lady Pickering, however. Why would she be jealous of anyone or anything?”
“While you’re probably right, I suspect she doesn’t want to align herself with the club because it may alienate some people with whom she would prefer to remain connected. And she won’t decline because I suspect she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.” Because she’d been a close friend of his mother’s. That made sense to Tobias.
A brief smile passed over Lucien’s lips. “Furthermore, I believe she very much supports the fact that the club includes women, even if we keep the sexes mostly separate. Indeed, that division is what keeps us respectable.”
“I would think she’d join eventually,” MacNair said quietly. “The ladies’ club has four exceptionally admirable patronesses. Lady Pickering would fit right in.”
Lucien snorted softly. “Don’t think I haven’t presented that argument. Mrs. Holland-Ward is a good friend of hers.” She was one of the patronesses along with Lady Dungannon, Lady Hargrove, and Mrs. Renshaw.
“You still haven’t told us about Miss Wingate,” Wexford said, raising his voice back to a normal volume. “Are she and Lucien’s sister going to be rivals to be named the Season’s diamond?”
Lucien snorted. “Cassandra will gleefully cede the attention. She’s not terribly enthused about having her Season, but our father will not allow her to push it off any longer.”
“Especially since you’ve completely rejected his efforts to see you wed,” MacNair said. “He has to manage someone.”
“I suppose it’s possible Miss Wingate could be the Season’s diamond.” Tobias had been surprised and perhaps a bit unnerved by her beauty. With a heart-shaped face graced with a slender nose and pink lips that formed a perfect bow and a gently curved figure, she possessed the form and features of an ideal English miss. But her dark red hair contrasted against the fair cream of her countenance made her stand out and demanded one ponder whether her temperament matched the serenity of her countenance. Or perhaps it was the spark in her brown eyes. With unmatched curiosity, her gaze assessed everything she encountered as if she were committing each item to memory.
“She’s pretty?” Wexford asked.
“Yes, but she has dark red hair.” Which Tobias found arresting. “Some will find it off-putting, I imagine.”
“Then they aren’t worth her time,” MacNair said. He was well-used to people judging him based on the almond color of his skin, or at least regarding him as if he were out of place in Society.
Wexford raised his glass. “Hear, hear.”
They all shared in