Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(22)

“I”—he accepted the dish with an angry motion—“am truly standing up for you.”

She bit back a response.

For several minutes, they all busied themselves with eating rather than conversing. But even with Amelia’s excellent fare, the diversion could only last so long.

The commander touched her wrist. “Will you flee to the country soon, my lady? Or do you winter in Town?”

“I will remain here in London,” she told him. “I expect my cousin—the new marquess—to arrive from Egypt soon. And you? How long will your ship be in dock?”

“A few months at least.” He gave her a solicitous smile. “Perhaps we will cross paths again.”

“Perhaps.” She turned to Julian for agreement, only to find his gaze trained fiercely on the commander’s hand where it still touched Lily’s wrist.

Yes, it was rather a liberty on the commander’s part. But really, nothing to demand that level of outrage. Julian glared at the man’s hand as though he were planning to take it joint from joint, cleaving muscle from sinew with a butcher’s efficiency—and perhaps a butcher’s implements, as well.

Lily gently withdrew her hand and reached for her glass, taking a long, leisurely sip of wine as a means of changing the subject. As she drank, she felt a palpable tension radiating from Julian’s quarter. She wanted to weep for despair. Why was he so angry all the time? Would they never be able to simply be friends again?

After the dishes and plates had been cleared, Amelia asked, “Since we are so uneven in our numbers this evening, shall we all adjourn directly to the drawing room? The gentlemen may enjoy their port in mixed company without fear of offending any delicate feminine sensibilities. Don’t you agree, Lily?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Excellent. What a lively group we’ll have for parlor games.”

They all rose, the chastened lieutenants apparently buoyed by the prospect of quality port. And though the duke looked faintly horrified by the prospect of parlor games, Lily held out hope that the group’s general humor would improve.

Unfortunately, as they departed the dining room, the commander was hasty in offering his arm. Lily had no polite way to refuse. She cast a beseeching look at Julian.

“Go on,” he said, eschewing her company for the duke’s. “Morland and I need to chat. Privately.”

The duke nodded his agreement, no doubt eager to escape the parlor games. He and Julian fell behind, then ducked into a side room.

Lily sighed. She hoped that by “chat,” Julian meant … an actual discussion. Not an exchange of insults and blows. But no matter how much she wished for the former, she knew the latter was a distinct possibility.

One minute in Morland’s study, and Julian already wanted to hit the man.

“Well, Bellamy.” The duke unstopped a decanter of brandy, timing the loud pop for dramatic emphasis. “It’s been awhile.”

Julian endeavored to remain calm. He concentrated on the amber flow of brandy as it swirled and tumbled into his glass. “Not nearly long enough for me.”

“I would be inclined to agree”—the duke filled his own glass—“if you didn’t owe me a great many explanations.”

Julian clenched his jaw. He owed this man nothing. “I assume you refer to the search for Leo’s murderers?”

“I fronted the money for that investigation. Several thousand pounds. So yes, I think that entitles me to some explanations. But first”—Morland indicated two chairs, and they sat down—“let’s talk horses.”

“Oh, yes. Forget our murdered friend. Horses always come first with you.”

The duke ignored the remark. “When I returned to Town, I went first thing to look in on Osiris. Imagine my shock when I did not find him at the same mews.”

“I had him moved,” Julian said testily. “Wasn’t that what you wanted? You had such a litany of complaints about his stabling.”

“I did.”

“And …?”

“And the current arrangements are improved.” Before Julian could respond, the duke added, “But still not what they should be.”

Arrogant ass. No doubt Morland would watch a pint of blue blood let from his veins before he’d spare Julian a word of concession.

“I still want to take the stallion to Cambridgeshire,” Morland said. “This is a priceless racehorse we’re discussing. My stables are the best. Osiris belongs there.”

Julian tipped his brandy. Of course. The duke would never deem any barn fit for that horse, other than his own. The purebred man deserves the purebred horse—that was Morland’s thinking. Well, Julian despised the man and his air of aristocratic entitlement. This was the very reason he’d charmed his way into the ton. To personally see overblown lords of Morland’s ilk mocked, humbled, ruined. Or most enjoyably of all, cuckolded.

Luckily for Morland, even Julian wouldn’t sink so low as to seduce the good-natured Amelia. Even if he had the heart for seduction lately, which he hadn’t.

“Need I remind you,” Spencer asked, “that my share of the horse exceeds yours by sevenfold?”

“No. You needn’t remind me.”

The ten brass tokens that signified membership in the Stud Club could never be bought or sold, only won or lost in a game of chance. It was the crowning example of Leo’s fair-minded nature. What other marquess would devise a club open to anyone with luck, regardless of his wealth or circumstance? Because, though noble-born, Leo had never thought himself the superior of any man.