Page 20 of Thief of the Ton
“Very good. I’ll send my man over with my notes this afternoon.” Houseman offered his hand, and Peregrine took it. Then he rose and left the clubroom, barking an order to a footman to fetch his greatcoat.
Peregrine took another sip of brandy, savoring the taste. Fools like Houseman could never appreciate a good brandy. Or anything, come to that. Houseman sought quick gratification in all things—in the liquor he drank, the cases he investigated, and, most likely, the women he bedded.
Whereas drink, conundrums, and women were best savored at leisure, to elicit maximum pleasure. Doubtless Houseman would congratulate himself on passing on a case that he believed impossible.
But Peregrine relished a challenge. He cast his gaze once more over the drawing and the intelligent expression in the bird’s eye.
“Well, Mr. Phoenix,” he said, a smile slowly curling his lips. “You may be a cunning fellow, but I shall relish the challenge of besting you.”
And best him he would.
“May we join you?” a male voice asked.
Peregrine glanced up. Two figures stood before him—Giles, Earl Thorpe, and Montague Fitzroy, Duke of Whitcombe.
“Is it a coincidence that the two of you approached me as soon as I was alone?” Peregrine asked.
“Monty and I had no wish for you to wallow in solitude,” Thorpe replied.
Whitcombe let out a snort. “You’re too bloody diplomatic for your own good, Thorpe,” he said. “The truth is, neither of us wished to spend a single moment in that primped-up coxcomb’s company.”
“Whoever do you mean?” Peregrine asked.
“Houseman, of course!” Whitcombe laughed, not caring that the man in question was barely out of the clubroom and doubtless still within earshot. He put little stock in others’ opinions of him. He had little need to care, with every man, and most of the women, in the world so desperate to ingratiate themselves with him that they were prepared to put up with anything—incivility, downright rudeness, and, in the case of the women, abandonment after he’d rutted them into ruination.
Thorpe gestured toward the sketch in Peregrine’s hand. “What do you have there?” he asked. “I know you’re a connoisseur of art, but I can’t see Sotheby’s taking an interest in it.”
Peregrine pocketed the sketch. “It’s something to do with a case I’m investigating.”
“Sothatexplains why that arse Houseman was here,” Whitcombe said. “Don’t tell me, he’s foisting a difficult case onto you because he’s too much of an imbecile to solve it himself, and he’s hoping to take the credit for your efforts.”
For a supposed rake and profligate, Whitcombe possessed an extraordinary level of insight. But that explained his attraction to the opposite sex. Whitcombe was able to ascertain, at a single glance, an individual’s deepest needs—and he was able to convey, with a single touch, his ability to satisfy them.
“You should leave that sort of thing to paid subordinates,” Whitcombe said. “There’s better pleasures to be had in life.”
“There’s more to life than making love to a woman,” Peregrine said.
Whitcombe barked with laughter. “Making love is for fools. I don’t make love—I fuck.”
A volley of tutting rippled through the air, accompanied by the rustling of newspapers as the other occupants of the clubroom voiced their disapproval in the only way an English gentleman knew how.
“I say, old boy, keep it down,” Thorpe said in a low voice.
“A real man wouldn’t shake his head and wave his copy of theLondon Timesto express his disapproval.” Whitcombe laughed. “He’d either call me out, or place a shiner on my face.”
As if anyone would call Whitcombe out! With a body that vibrated pure, primal masculinity, no man would dare challenge him.
The trouble was, Whitcombe knew it.
“I take it you’re using the language of the rutting boar because you’ve indulged in yet another session at Mrs. DeBauche’s Establishment for the Entertainment of Discerning Gentlemen,” Peregrine said.
Thorpe spluttered on his brandy “TheEntertainment of Discerning Gentlemen?” He shook his head. “Why does the termdiscerning—presumably meant to convey a particularly educated sense of taste—give rise to the most sordid images when being used to describe a gentleman? Why not call it what it is—a bawdy house?”
“Doubtless because Mrs. DeBauche can charge an extra shilling,” Whitcombe said. “And no—I’ve never patronized her establishment. I prefer a hunting ground of a finer caliber.”
“Such as Lady Foxwell’s ball next week?” Thorpe asked. “I hear Lady Irma Fairchild is attending. I suspect she’s hoping you’ll ask her to dance, Monty.”
“Ugh.” Whitcombe wrinkled his nose. “I suspect it’s so cold between her thighs that one session with her would freeze a chap’s manhood. Lord help the poor man who saddles himself with her.”
