one of the few people in the room who needed his glass. The only sound in the club was that of half a hundred men breathing.
His Grace finally dropped his glass and pronounced, “You bear a remarkable resemblance to your grandfather.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Tyndale’s thin, bloodless lips flexed into a frown. “I paid a call at your house, expecting you would be there,” he said in ringing tones. “But—as you were not at home on your wedding night, my grandson deduced you would be here.”
The murmur of voices made Gabriel realize he’d probably need to leave the country before he would ever live this down. The duke, however, seemed impervious to the stir he was causing.
“I’ve accompanied my heir to put an end to this foolishness. Visel claims he was merely keeping the girl from falling off a bench when you attacked him.”
Gabriel looked at the earl, who gave a slight shrug and cocked one eyebrow as if to say, Go ahead, argue with an old man if you must.
Gabriel said nothing and waited for the duke to say what he’d come to say.
Tyndale studied him with eyes that were a flinty pale blue. “Visel also told me he attempted to kiss the girl.”
Gabriel just stared.
The duke’s mouth flexed into a grimace of resignation. “I see. So you are prepared to duel over a kiss that never happened.” It was not a question.
“A kiss with a woman who is now my wife.” The air in the room hummed with the sound of whispering and tension. Gabriel ignored it and continued. “And then there is the rumor that grew out of that encounter. A rumor your grandson conceived in order to destroy a young woman’s reputation.” Gabriel felt, rather than heard, Byer sigh beside him.
The tissue-thin skin that stretched over the duke’s sharp cheekbones reddened and the man’s eyes narrowed. For a moment Gabriel wondered if he was going to slap a glove in his face, too.
But, to his surprise, the duke turned to his heir. “Lord Visel has something he wishes to say.” His voice was as dry and cold as the desert at night.
Visel met Gabriel’s eyes, and—for once—Gabriel could read no message in them, not even hatred.
Byer held up one beringed hand. “Gentlemen, would you not like to retire somewhere more, er, private?”
Visel cut him a humorless, dismissive smile. “It makes no odds to me who hears it.”
Byer’s eyebrows shot up. “Well then. Please go on.”
“I would like to apologize for my behavior in the Abingdon conservatory, Marlington.”
The room buzzed as if from a sudden infestation of crickets.
Gabriel waited.
The corners of Visel’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “My actions were not those of a gentleman.”
The small room—overstuffed with warm, sweating, drinking male bodies—exploded with exclamations, and men started pushing through the crowd toward the exit, no doubt eager to be the first to spread the word.
But Visel was not yet finished. “And, of course, I would like to apologize for any misunderstandings I might have inadvertently perpetrated.” Visel watched him with the intensity of a man studying a scientific experiment. He knew, as Gabriel and every other man in this room knew, that to refuse such a public—albeit bizarre—apology would be unthinkable.
“I accept your apology, Lord Visel.”
The duke nodded. “You are magnanimous, Marlington.” His voice could hardly be heard in the din. “The best thing for all involved will be to put this behind us as soon as possible. Tomorrow night is Lady Renwick’s ball. I propose we publicly acknowledge each other and bury the hatchet. The evening after that we will attend the theater, the last night of the current production. I know Lord Exley keeps a box.”
Gabriel felt a muscle in his jaw jump. Yes, his stepfather kept a box: at the same theater where one of his ex-mistresses was currently performing.
“Yes, he does.”
“We can meet under the eyes of three-quarters of the ton, and that should put paid to the worst of the scandal. The sooner this dies down, the better it will be for all of us, Marlington, especially the ladies involved.”
Visel had not taken his eyes off Gabriel while the duke spoke. He did not look like a man who had just apologized—or, at least, he did not resemble a man who felt any remorse.
Quite the contrary. As ever, Gabriel could feel the hatred emanating from him.
When Gabriel had first moved to Britain, the ill will had mystified him; how could men who’d never met him, or spoken to him, hate him?
How naïve