Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,51

man had looking bored and lazy down to an art form. But it would be foolish to underestimate him, no matter how foppishly he liked to dress and behave. Gabriel had fenced and sparred with him since the first week they’d met at Oxford, two outcasts thrown together in a bastion of elite snobbery: Byer was a lethal man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing—or at least a wolf in the clothing of a feckless, no-longer-so-young pink of the ton.

Thomas, Viscount Byer, had been born the youngest of four brothers. The Byer family was perhaps the only ton family more notorious than Gabriel’s.

His eldest brother had run off with the Earl of Graythorpe’s wife when Thomas was still at Eton. Although Byer never said so, Gabriel knew he would have suffered dreadfully at the hands of the other boys—especially Graythorpe’s twin sons, who’d been in his same form.

Byer’s brother and Lady Graythorpe had been headed to Italy when their ship ran afoul of the French navy, and everyone on board died.

His middle brother, the next viscount, died less than a month after coming into the title. His death had been even more ignominious than his elder brother’s: he’d been engaged in a horse race—in which both contestants had ridden their mounts backward—and had died instantly when his horse ran into a stone fence. His opponent had suffered only the loss of one leg.

The third Viscount Byer had been neither a libertine nor reckless. He had, however, been something of a gambler. And a very bad one. In the end, he’d taken the coward’s way out of the mess he had made and shot himself in the head with a dueling pistol, but not before he’d lost everything that hadn’t been nailed down or entailed on the viscountcy, leaving Byer, the new viscount, with a mountain of debts.

Byer had been at Oxford when his last brother died—just a few months before Gabriel left to come to London this year. His friend left Oxford after spending almost seven years there, never having actually studied or attended a lecture that anyone could recall. Or really even been there most of the time. Byer had spent more time at his random mistresses’ houses or sponging houses or other, unknown, places than he ever had in the quarters they’d shared.

Since leaving Oxford, Byer had gone about town with his usual care-for-nobody air. But Gabriel was not fooled. His suave, jaded, and sophisticated best friend had lost his heart to Eva years ago—not that his sister seemed to notice. Nor, Gabriel suspected, would she want Byer’s heart—or any other part of him. Eva was a person even more averse to marriage than most men of his acquaintance. She’d known Byer almost five years and viewed him as a brother. He suspected that if she ever fell for a man, it would not be the seemingly lazy, languid, and foppish viscount.

Shouts and yells pulled Gabriel from his musing, and he saw a familiar face pushing through the crowd of onlookers.

Byer sat up straighter in his chair as Visel strode toward them, accompanied by two other men.

“Ah, it would seem His Grace of Tyndale has finally taken an interest in his heir’s activities.”

Something about his friend’s voice made him turn. Byer’s face was hard, his usually lazy smile nowhere to be seen.

“This should be interesting,” Byer said under his breath just before Gabriel got to his feet.

The duke was a very old man—at least in his eighties—and as thin and sharp as a rapier. His blue eyes were clouded with age but his expression was as haughty as a king’s.

The younger of the two men accompanying Visel stepped toward them and bowed.

“Good evening, Endicott,” Byer said.

Geoffrey Endicott—Visel’s second—ignored his greeting, turning instead to the duke. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to Mr. Gabriel Marlington.” His voice was unnecessarily loud.

Before either Gabriel or the duke could respond, Byer chuckled, his sleepy gaze flickering from Endicott to Tyndale to Visel and then back. “My goodness, Endicott—trying your hand at the dramatic arts, are you?”

Endicott flushed, Visel looked bored, and the duke ignored them both and stepped forward, his eyes on Gabriel.

The crowd was frozen—neither servants nor patrons bothering to hide the fact they were openly listening and watching. This meeting—or whatever it was—should have taken place elsewhere, somewhere more private, but Visel, or perhaps the duke, must have wanted it this way.

The duke lifted a plain gold quizzing glass and examined Gabriel through it. Gabriel suspected the ancient man was