Page 3 of The Devil Himself
“I know that was difficult for you, Rys, but?—”
“Do you, Lucian?” Rys drawled out his name and raised one dark eyebrow. “You are your father’s golden boy.”
“My father died five years ago.”
Now Rys blinked, then his expression changed to one of chagrin. “My sympathies, Fitzwilliam. I had not heard, and I try to keep informed of the peerage.”
“My father had vacated Town for the country house to convalesce. It’s not surprising you didn’t know if you weren’t reading letters from the family. It hardly rated a mention in the scandal sheets.”
“Well, I apologize for my unwise words.”
“Fair enough.” In fact, Luc hadn’t expected the apology, and he appreciated it.
Rys strode to a sideboard tucked along one wall, lifting a bottle. “Whisky?”
“I would take one, yes.” What he had to convey to Rys was unpleasant at best, so they might both need the fortification.
Luc studied Rys as he poured liquor into two cut crystal glasses. There was an opulence to the Devil’s Playground that he’d never seen in a hell before, a sheen of sophistication that hid the sin just enough to make it seem imminently desirable. And that stood to reason, as the club sat along the same street as White’s and Brooks’.
And then there was Rys. He was hardly the gangly young man Luc had last seen nearly twelve years before.
He was the picture of dangerous masculine grace. And beauty. Which he shouldn’t notice.
“So what is it you want, Fitzwilliam?” he asked, coming to hand Luc a glass. “Or should I call you Angelsey?”
“You may call me Luc, Rys. You’ve known me since you were five.”
“Mmm.” Rys sipped his whisky. “So?”
Impatient bastard. “As I said, your brother has passed.” And Luc had been Owen’s best friend, which was how he knew Rys in the first place. He was five years older than Rys, twoyears younger than Rys’s oldest brother Owen, and this whole situation made him itch with rage.
“And I said thank you for the news. I’m sure Owen’s son will be a fine marquess.”
Luc gritted his teeth. “There’s more to it.”
“Do tell,” Rys drawled with heavy irony in his voice, but his silvery gaze had sharpened.
Luc took a deep breath, knowing what came next would pour oil on the flame he’d already set ablaze. “Owen was murdered, Rys.”
Rys tightenedhis hand on his glass of whisky to keep from dropping it. Of all the things Lucian Fitzwilliam could have said, that was the least expected.
“Well, if you are concerned that I am the culprit, I assure you, I have not seen Owen in perhaps five years.”
“I am well aware of your disastrous last meeting.”
Rys chuckled without any real humor. Yes. When his father had passed, he’d gone to the funeral procession and graveside service, since he had not been invited to the wake. Owen had confronted him angrily, his other brothers backing Owen’s play, and he’d left before seeing the old bastard in the ground.
“I am running out of patience, Luc. Tell me what it is you want.”
“I know you had your differences but, unlike your father, Owen was a good man, Rys.”
He would not dignify that by scoffing, and he controlled his face with steely resolve. “He was your best friend, so I shall allow you to think that.”
“He was, at least as far as his duty to the title was concerned. The tenants loved him, the estates flourished, and his wife?—”
“Christ.” His wife. Rys scrubbed a hand over his face. “How is Hannah?”
“Devastated.” Luc sighed, tossing back some of the whisky in his glass. “But she’s going to be fine, provided the person who killed Owen doesn’t come after her children.”
