Page 66 of Impossible
“Do you remember the first time we came here?” Max asked.
Dougal laughed. “When we thought it was a brothel? How randy we were, and so sure of ourselves.” He rolled his eyes. “I forget who told us to come, leading us to believe we would be able to dip our quills in the well, and had a good laugh at our expense.”
“It was Oliver Kent,” Lucien said. “He still crows about it.”
Max hadn’t thought of Kent in years. A powerful and well-regarded member of Parliament, Kent could easily be their father, but possessed the sense of humor of a lad at school. He’d never been married and managed to be liked and respected by nearly everyone. He was particularly known for guiding young bucks on their path to debauchery. But he did it with such good humor and efficiency that no one faulted him for it. Probably because he was the first to help someone in need—quietly, of course. Indeed, he’d visited Max after he’d returned from Spain and still wrote from time to time. Max had never responded.
“Does Kent still frequent this place?” Max asked, wondering if he was going to have to answer for his rude behavior.
“No idea,” Lucien responded. “I haven’t been here in years.”
“Me neither,” Dougal added as they neared the club.
“You know I haven’t,” Max said rather unnecessarily.
Dougal moved between them and put his arms around their shoulders. “I’m glad we’re here now. Into the breach!” He led them to the door, where a footman admitted them.
Memories assaulted Max as he stepped inside the large main room of the club. Round tables covered with purple linen sat at intervals, many of which were occupied by gentlemen. Provocatively dressed women glided about, some offering drinks while others simply stopped to chat with patrons.
A large arched doorway with purple drapes led to the gaming room. Shouts and laughter carried into the main room, tempting Max. He’d won—and lost—a great deal of money here.
“Gambling tonight?” Dougal asked as if he could read Max’s mind. But then he likely recalled how much Max had enjoyed the tables. They all had.
“I’m a bit long in the tooth for that,” Max responded wryly.
As they made their way into the main room, heads turned, and the murmurs started along with the looks—gazes focused on Max’s face briefly until they turned away in alarm or disgust. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, determined to stay.
He could suffer this. He’d endured far worse.
“Och!” A woman with bright red hair stopped in front of them. She put her hands on her ample hips and looked from Lucien to Dougal and then to Max, where her attention arrested on his face. “Hunt?” she asked, her eyes agog. “What the devil happened to ye?” Her Scottish brogue, thicker than Dougal’s, was as pronounced as it had been a decade earlier.
“The war, Becky,” Max said evenly. “I was in Spain.”
“I forgot about that.” She leaned close, standing on her toes so his cheek was at her eye level. “Looks like ye were burned. Imagine that hurt like hell. I’d say it makes ye ugly, but in truth, it gives ye a dashing, mayhap dangerous, air.” She stood back and narrowed an assessing eye at him. “I like it.”
Max didn’t know whether to be offended or complimented. He preferred the latter, so that was what he decided to be. “Thank you.”
Dougal leaned toward her and spoke in a low, gravelly voice. “He’s dangerously dashing. Spread the word.”
Becky snorted. “Hunt never had trouble turnin’ heads, and he won’t now. Nothin’s changed—we still aren’t offering services,” she added with a touch of sternness.
“He’s the Viscount Warfield now,” Lucien said with mock authority.
Her eyes widened, and she sank into a deep, overwrought curtsey. “Your lordship. I am honored to be in your presence.” When she rose, she surveyed the three of them. “Ye lot want a table? Ale?”
“That would be most welcome,” Dougal said, rubbing his hands together.
She showed them to an empty table near the middle of the room. Max nearly protested in favor of something on the periphery, but there wasn’t much available. Besides, he didn’t want to be difficult. He tugged his hat a little lower on the left side.
Becky went to fetch their ale.
“You aren’t going to cover your scars doing that,” Lucien said.
Max glowered in his direction. “Mind yourself.”
“What was the name of the actual brothel we went to after we discovered we weren’t getting shagged here?” Dougal mused.
Lucien drummed his fingertips on the table briefly. “I don’t recall.”
