Page 23 of To Have and to Hoax
“Ah,” said Jeremy knowingly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Precisely why I haven’t the slightest interest in the institution.”
“Yes, well,” James said darkly, continuing to stare unseeingly down into his empty glass, “I do have to give that wife of mine credit. She has outdone herself when it comes to creating new ways to make my life difficult.”
“What’s she done now?” Penvale asked, and James didn’t think he was imagining the wariness in Penvale’s voice.
Some dim part of his mind registered that sober James, or perhaps even moderately intoxicated James, would prevaricate at this point, or back away entirely from any discussion of anything to do with himself and Violet. However, excessive-amounts-of-brandy-and-wine James had a loose tongue, and little desire to mince words. “Caught consumption.”
Jeremy choked on his drink. “Excuse me?” he managed, after his wheezing had subsided.
“Or at least, that’s what she’d like me to believe,” James continued, feeling a fresh surge of anger as he spoke. It had been devastating, four years prior, to learn that he had misplaced his trust in a woman who, as it turned out, would keep vital information from him. He, who had been so slow to trust in the past, had felt like a fool for being taken in by a pretty face and a charming laugh. Now, on his seeing further evidence of her duplicity, the pain was absent—but the anger was just as strong.
“She’s been acting oddly the last couple of days, and I return home yesterday to find some charlatan of a physician leaving the premises who informs me that she might or might not have consumption, he’s not quite certain.” James could hear the sarcasm in his own voice as he finished speaking.
“How do you know he was a charlatan?” Jeremy asked.
James thought of the calling card with Belfry’s name on it, still sitting in one of his coat pockets. “Trust me,” he said. “I know.” His friends, recognizing the tone that he adopted when he would not be pushed further on a given topic, didn’t protest. He redirected his bleary gaze toward Penvale, who had, until this point, remained largely silent. “And it’s your bloody fault for that letter, you ass.”
Penvale didn’t even blink. “According to my sister, everything usually is.” His tone was the weary one of a man accustomed to a lifetime of unfair accusations.
“Your sister,” James said, pausing, a thought occurring to him. “I’ll bet she knows all about this. Don’t suppose you’ve plans to see her anytime soon?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m engaged to escort her to the theater tomorrow,” Penvale said, with all the cheer of a man facing the gallows.
James frowned. “Violet mentioned the theater tomorrow, too.” Then, suddenly, the pieces fell into place. “She didn’t mention which one, though. Covent Garden? Drury Lane?” he queried innocently, knowing perfectly well what Penvale’s answer would be.
“No,” Penvale said, shaking his head. “The Belfry.”
Jeremy, who had been slouched back in his chair, swirling the contents of his glass around, sat up so quickly that some of the liquid sloshed over the side of the glass and onto his immaculately pressed breeches. “The Belfry?” he said, sounding more like an anxious mama than James would have believed possible. “You can’t take ladies to the Belfry, have you gone mad?”
Penvale seemed to be considering his words with care. “Diana was recently introduced to Julian Belfry. He extended the invitation.”
“I’ll bet he did,” Jeremy muttered, with more feeling than James would have expected.
“She asked Violet to come, too, for the sake of appearances,” Penvale explained. He slumped back slightly in his chair, raising his glass to his lips in a gesture of practiced indolence that was reminiscent of his sister—Penvale and Lady Templeton both shared a particular lazy grace.
“And apparently I shall be accompanying Violet, also for the sake of appearances,” James said wryly. He leaned his head back against his chair, staring unseeingly up at the ornate ceiling of White’s. His mind was full of conflicting desires: the desire to catch Violet out in her lie in the most embarrassing way possible; the desire to learn how the hell Julian Belfry had gotten tangled up in all of this; the desire to tear off that bloody sheer nightgown she’d had on earlier and drag his tongue over every inch of the body that lay—
It was this enticing thought that was occupying most of his mental energy when he was dragged out of the reverie by the sound of Jeremy’s voice.
“West! Fancy a drink, old chap?”
James raised his head. Sure enough, his elder brother stood before them, regarding James in particular with an expression that was a mixture of amusement and disapproval.
“West,” James said shortly.
“James,” his brother replied. “Rough evening?”
“Not at all,” James said coldly, sitting up straighter in his chair.
West raised an eyebrow. James returned the gesture.
He could remember happier days, when conversations with his brother had not always felt like some sort of silent battle. When they’d been children, the duke had largely ignored James, focusing his attention and energies on his eldest son and heir, West. The young Marquess of Weston, it was understood, was the one the family pinned its hopes on. The future duke and steward of the land. The continuation of a long line of dukes. It was West who spent long days riding about the estate with the duke, while James was left behind in the care of a nurse or, later, a tutor.
His father’s motives for favoring West had not been particularly clear at the time to a boy who had spent his entire life in a large house in the country without anything in the way of fatherly affection—and not much of the brotherly sort, either, given West’s frequent absence. He had been sent to Eton, where Jeremy and Penvale had become brothers of a sort to him, and it was only after he’d taken up residence in London after finishing university that he and West had formed any sort of friendship. As an adult, James had come to realize that in some ways he, and not his brother, had received the better end of the deal in regard to their father.
The aforementioned friendship had faltered when his marriage had. Immediately on the heels of his argument with Violet, James—admittedly in a rather prickly mood—had quarreled with West, ostensibly over the management of the Audley House stables, but more broadly over their father’s role in his life, his marriage, and his relationship with his brother.
Their conversations in the recent past had been less warm than they once had been.
