Page 2 of The Duke of Pain

“Then that leaves Wollstonecraft,” Brookton said.

“Yes, I’m here,” Oliver Wollstonecraft replied, looking almost as bored as Gideon. Oliver was the heir apparent to his grandfather, Aidan Wollstonecraft, the Earl of Carnstone.

“Then let’s begin,” Brookton declared, closing the journal. “I think we should reiterate what this group is all about: the foremost pursuit for one’s pleasures, especially of the carnal variety. There is time enough to settle down and see to responsibilities. Meanwhile, we will enjoy all life had to offer affluent men of considerable means.”

Again, Gideon struggled not to roll his eyes.

“And in that vein, we share our experiences, recommend clubs, or warn against others,” Brookton concluded.

“The Chrysalis has closed its doors for good,” Wollstonecraft interjected. “I thank you all for the warning. Word circulated about their shabby practices despite assurances, and the madam sold the place. A new club is opening in its stead, I hear.”

“I have heard of a new club opening in the East End. It will be called The Velvet Vine and Tackle. I will make a cursory visit when it opens,” Gideon volunteered.

“Very well. You know what we all like, see if the place can accommodate us. Wollstonecraft, when you hear what will be replacing The Chrysalis, do let us know,” Brookton exclaimed. “I have also heard some news. The Blind Cupid, which changed hands last summer, is about to be sold once again.”

“It is just as well,” Wollstonecraft sniffed. “The new owners let it go to seed. The standards there now are deplorable. What happened to the red-haired madam who ran and owned the place?”

“She married a copper. Keep us informed of any further changes,” Brookton replied. “Meanwhile, we will avoid it unless it improves.”

“I know of the copper,” Gideon interrupted. “Rory Kerrigan, Detective Sergeant. He assisted in Allenby’s business last autumn. I’ve had a couple of dealings with him as well. A good contact to have on the Metropolitan Police.”

“Perhaps you would like to take over this group once again, Watford?” Brookton said sarcastically.

“Never. Pray continue.”

“Has anyone heard from Huxley?” Brookton asked.

Warren Cowley, Viscount Huxley, had been in and out of a sanatorium since last September. In late October, he had attended a farewell dinner for Christian Bamford, the aforementioned Duke of Allenby, former leader of this coterie of clowns. The duke was one of three who had left the group after finding their true loves. Brandon and Asher Colborne, Baron Wenlock, made up the other two.

Gideon nearly scoffed aloud at the prospect.

True loves.

Allenby married a bold lady detective. Wenlock married some street waif he had known of years before. And Brandon? He married a woman from his wretched past, a lady he originally wanted to take revenge on.

It was all too ridiculous for words.

How clever that I stay above such dubious and unfortunate entanglements.

If Gideon married at all, which was highly unlikely since set in his ways, it would be someone above all reproach.

Someone safe. Someone Gideon couldn’t care less about, one way or the other.

What was the original topic? Right. Huxley.

Gideon looked at Brookton. “I haven’t heard a word.”

Brookton sliced a line across the page. “Huxley is out.”

Perhaps it was time Gideon was out.

What did these men mean to him? Nothing.

“I would wait on Huxley, allow him to withdraw,” Gideon said.

“Very well, we’ll keep him on the books for now. Huxley is not out.” Annoyed, Brookton scribbled furiously.

Yes. Maybe Gideon should have his name stroked out. He should start making it known that he was ready to consider marriage. Forty was such a stark number. Life is more than half over, and all that rot.