Page 17 of Lessons for Marquesses
“He’s no secret,” Nicholas replied.
The Marquess of Kimbrough, known as Quiz, approached. “Indeed, Palliard is not a secret. And he only improves.”
After a visit to Long Island, Quiz had been instrumental in securing Nicholas, known as Mr. Wolf,a membership in the Jockey Club.
The world and Newmarket had accepted Nicholas as Mr. Wolf of New York, more so, he assumed, than they would have accepted the prodigal marquess who had chosen war over a noose.
“Have you heard?” asked Quiz. “The St. Clair Witch has been pulled.”
Nicholas nodded. “Shame.”
“Damn shame.” The furrow on Quiz’s brow appeared genuine. “She has spirit.”
“I assume that is why they refer to her as the witch,” Nicholas said.
“I meant Miss St. Clair.”
One who hadn’t a brother killed by a St. Clair had the luxury to call Georgiana St. Clair spirited. Nine years had onlyentrenched his belief that William had killed his brother. And Georgiana St. Clair had had the nerve to tell him togo to hell.
The viscount snorted. “Eastwick lodged a complaint against her eligibility. As if he’s an authority on fair play.”
“How so?” Nicholas countered quietly.
Quiz counseled the viscount. “Mr. Wolf has not been subjected to our gossip.”
“Ho! Gossip is it?” The viscount wiped a dribble of wine from his chin. “Eastwick killed his brother in a drunken brawl. Over a woman.”
How the bastards created backstories to fit the endings. There might have been a time—no, there had been a time—Nicholas would have fit four fingers along this man’s windpipe and dug his thumb into the opposing side. He poured more whiskey in his punch glass.
The viscount spoke from the side of his mouth. “See there, Mr. Wolf. The woman who made a marquess out of a murderer. Lady Tufton.”
Caroline crossed within a foot of Nicholas with a swift, yet total, perusal of his body. He imagined fucking her instead of strangling the viscount.
“My apologies,” Nicholas murmured. “I don’t know Lady Tufton.”
Minimally attending further discussion, Nicholas was relieved to be alone after Quiz secured a promise to see him at the auction on the morrow.
“Good evening.” A voice spoke beside him.
Nicholas’s heart lurched. He didn’t have to look. It was René Durand’s ghost—no, just a young man—and from the edge of his vision, he saw that the youth had changed into a suit of cerulean.
“Did you by chance come upon a sense of humor?” the youth asked. “If not, I saw an old crone peddling some in the rookery.I’d be most obliged to take you there. But I must warn you, do not expect a fair price.”
The youth’s hand held a flute of champagne. The hand, if not for the cuts upon the knuckles, was slim like a female’s.
Damn, but he—it—looked like a female. Not just a female, a pretty female.
Whatever it was, if he ignored it, it would leave.
It took a breath, settling in. “Well.”
No, Nicholas would leave. He searched for a place to set down his glass.
“On second thought, it’s just as well,” it said in French.
In French. Just like René Durand.
Nicholas gripped his glass, turning to the boy, the girl. What was it? Its eyes were blue-green, a perfect, impossible match to the suit.
