Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(3)

He made his eyes go wide with seriousness. “A whole nineteen years? My sister has become a world-weary woman. Tell me, have you come to discuss the situation of Mrs. Battleby?”

“Atleby,” Patrina and Mother exclaimed in unison.

“And no, I’ve not come to discuss Mrs. Atleby, but rather you, Jonathan.”

He set his drink down. Suddenly, the title-grasping young ladies he went to great lengths to avoid seemed vastly preferable to the mutinous set to Patrina and Mother’s mouths, and the like glimmers of disapproval in their eyes. He drummed his fingers on the Chippendale sideboard. “Well, on with it, then,” he drawled.

Patrina blinked her large brown eyes, and the firm line of her lips faltered at his command. She tapped the tip of her slipper upon the wood floor the staccato rhythm muted by the floral Aubusson carpet. “Must you always do that?” she groused.

He grinned, and reached for his glass of whiskey upon the table. He raised it again in salute.

“And it is entirely too early for spirits,” his mother called, as she strode over in a flurry of silver silk skirts.

Jonathan looked to the clock and raised the glass to his lips. “It is very nearly noon.” He took a sip, welcoming the soothing warmth of the brew.

Patrina’s eyebrows dipped. “You’ve had entirely too many spirits lately, if the gossip columns are to be believed,” she scolded. “And I’ve found where you’re concerned they seem to be remarkably accurate.”

He inclined his head. “I’m wounded, Trina.” His sister’s faithlessness chafed. It was one thing for Society to view him as nothing more than the careless rogue whose name was splashed throughout the papers, and quite another when his own family held the same low opinion of him.

With the determined set to Patrina and Mother’s shoulders, he suspected he would have needed another two bottles to strengthen whatever resolve he’d need.

He took another sip.

Patrina sighed, and glided over to him. With the effortless ease of a London pickpocket, she plucked the glass from between his fingers, and passed it on to Mother, who proceeded to carry the half-drunk whiskey to the empty hearth.

A protest formed on his lips as she hurled the contents into the metal grate. Jonathan frowned. “You make a gentleman glad to have left his rooms at his clubs for your lovely company,” he muttered under his breath.

They fixed matching glares upon him. And then in a unison better suited to lieutenants in His Majesty’s infantry, they sank into the leather sofa opposite him.

As a wagering man, he considered the two women, and speculated as to which of them would be the first to reveal the reason for the missive requesting his presence on a matter of utmost urgency. Mother had the reserve of a mature dowager of far more years than Patrina’s mere nineteen years.

“You cannot go on like this,” Patrina began, making him wish he could have placed the wager in the book at White’s. He’d have made a fortune on his obvious prediction. She frowned. “Are you listening to me, Jonathan?”

Knowing it would infuriate his vexing sister, he grinned and reached for another glass. Her black glower stopped him. He’d be wise to choose his battles this day. “I’d wager all the servants hovering at the doorway heard you with great clarity.”

Mother’s frown deepened. “Our servants do not eavesdrop. Or gossip. They are entirely loyal…” She shook her head. “That is neither here nor there.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “And that is why you’re here. It is time you set aside your…your…” A red blush stained her cheeks.

“Womanizing?” Patrina supplied.

Mother fanned her cheeks. “Trina!” Then, “And yes. Your womanizing, Jonathan.”

“And your excess drinking,” His sister added unhelpfully.

“I do not indulge in excess drink,” he cut in. He shifted in his seat. What respectable gentleman didn’t enjoy the occasional drink, now and then? “I indulge in drink.” He strolled over to the leather winged-back chair opposite their sofa, and plopped himself into it. “Humph, and here I’d thought I was here about the whole governess business.”

“Well, that as well,” Mother said, with a touch of annoyance in her tone.

Patrina glanced pointedly at Jonathan. “There is the whole matter of his gaming, Mama. You mustn’t forget his gaming,” she spoke with the same passion of a county vicar blasting the villagers for their great sins.

Jonathan sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, long-tired with his sister and Mother’s barrage. He feigned a yawn. “No, we mustn’t forget my gaming.”

“The gossip columns report on your frequent, and outrageous, wagers at the gaming tables,” Patrina went on as though he’d not spoken.

He hooked one ankle over the other. “Do they also report on my astounding success at whist and faro?” Because he’d done remarkably well at the turn of the cards of late. There’d been that particularly fine hit with the Baronet Albert Marshville. The blasted fool hadn’t known when to turn on his heel and quit the game, and Jonathan had made out the better for it.

Patrina leaned forward in her seat. She flattened her lips into a disapproving line. “They also say—”

“I’d not taken you as one to pay attention to the gossip rags,” he said with a dry twist of humor to his words.