Page 144 of Doxy for the Ton
“I never considered us to be friends,” Alexander said. “Why would you honor me in such a manner?”
“Perhaps because I’m honoring another.”
Mr. Drayton leaned forward, his youthful face displaying his eagerness. “Is Lady Rex well?” he asked. “I’ve not seen her lately.”
Alexander sighed. Couldn’t he be permitted to enjoy one drink without being plagued by the memory of what he’d lost?
“Drayton, I don’t think that’s any of your—” he began, then broke off as the footman arrived with two glasses of brandy.
Westbury watched him, his sharp gaze filled with understanding.
“My son was inquiring out of kindness, Sawbridge,” he said after the footman left. “He considers Lady Rex to be the paragon of kindness, do you not, Edward?”
The young man nodded.
“Lady Rex was well the last time I saw her,” Alexander said. “But she’s left London for the country. I know not where.”
“Didn’t she—” Drayton began, but Westbury interrupted.
“Edward, perhaps you’d care to tell our friends how you’re progressing with your studies.” He nodded to Alexander. “My son goes up to Oxford later this year.”
“Christchurch College, I presume,” Thorpe said.
Westbury nodded. “Naturally. The dean has promised him my old room.”
“Mine was better—the windows overlooked the River Cherwell,” Thorpe replied. “Your room was on the wrong side of the building—and too close to the tower. You always complained about the clock keeping you awake at night when it struck.”
As his friends reminisced about their Oxford days, Alexander glanced about the clubroom. Then he froze.
Sitting among a group of the least savory men of Society—Viscount de Blanchard, and the utterly vile Mr. MacDiarmid—was Earl Mayhew. A fat cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, he seemed to be regaling them with some no-doubt-sordid tale. Every so often, one of them would throw his head back in an exaggerated gesture and roar for more brandy, much to the tutting of the members sitting nearby.
Then Alexander caught a name, and a ball of anger coiled like a spring in his heart.
“LadyRex, indeed!” Mayhew chortled. “In my experience, no lady screams like a bitch in heat when I…”
Laughter drowned out his voice.
The spring snapped. Alexander leaped out of his chair and strode toward Mayhew, whose laughter died as he approached, the relish in his eyes turning into terror. He glanced toward his friends, but like all bullies, they shriveled when faced with a stronger opponent, and fell silent, their portly figures wobbling with fear as Alexander’s three companions followed him over.
“S-Sawbridge,” Mayhew stammered, looking to his friends for support.
“What are you doing here?” De Blanchard asked.
“Be quiet, you worm,” Westbury said. “Or shall I send for my wife to deal with you as she sees fit?”
De Blanchard paled, and his hands involuntarily covered his groin.
So—the rumors were true that Westbury’s wife had once come close to castrating De Blanchard with a single blow after he’d tried to force himself on her.
“As for you, MacDiarmid, I’m surprised to see you showing your face here. Don’t you prefer to spread rumors about those whom you seek to demonize, rather than face them like a man? You always were a sniveling wretch, though you’re among your kind here.”
De Blanchard rose to his feet. “I’m not willing to remain here and be insulted,” he said, his voice wavering. “Come along, chaps.”
MacDiarmid stood, but Mayhew remained sitting.
“I’m staying,” he said. “I’ve my brandy to finish, and I want to get my money’s worth—just as I did with that slut.”
De Blanchard and MacDiarmid exchanged a glance, then exited the clubroom.
