‘Let’s stop at Jem’s first,’ Wick said, getting to his feet. ‘In my current mood I could pound even the champion into the wall.’
Sunny’s upper lip curled. ‘Jem’s only let you hit him once.’
‘He didn’tletme.’
Sunny shook his head, linking his arm with Wick’s. ‘He did.’
They walked out of the room together, talking more loudly than they should in the gentlemen’s club. Especially in the reading room, where they nearly ran into a gentleman with dark greying hair.
Wick was about to apologise when he saw the man’s face. It was Alexander. Mantheria’s husband. But no one in his family called the jackanapes by his first name any more. Only by his title—Glastonbury. His sister’s unfaithful husband was supposed to be at a party in the country. He clearly was not. No doubt he hadn’t left London at all, but had spent the last few days at Lady Dutton’s townhouse. What Glastonbury saw in the woman Wick would never know. She had to be fifty, at least. And the widowed Lady Dutton couldn’t be called pretty. At her age, handsome was the only epithet she could hope for. But, according totongossip, Glastonbury had loved her for thirty years—even before her husband had died.
The other man smiled, touching his hat. ‘Wick, it is good to see you.’
Wick clenched his hands into fists. He wanted nothing more than to punch his brother-in-law in the face. To slap his glove across his cheek and demand the satisfaction of a duel. But Mantheria had told him not to, and he had to respect her wishes or he would be a villain like her husband.
‘I take it that your house party broke up early, Glastonbury? Where was it again? Shropshire?’
A tinge of colour entered Alexander’s cheeks. And to think Wick had once idolised him. Envied him for being a notable whip and a renowned Corinthian. What a difference four years made—and it wasn’t just the additional grey hairs on the man’s head. Wick now knew that Glastonbury wasn’t a man of honour, despite his friendly nature.
Four years ago Glastonbury had put Wick’s name up at White’s, Watier’s, and even the Four Horse Club. With such a sponsor Wick had had no difficulty being accepted to any club in London. His own father didn’t belong to any clubs. Nor was Papa at all interested in society.
Wick had been a young man, fresh out of university and looking for a mentor. He might have fallen prey to the sharks and hangers-on, but Glastonbury had taken him under his wing. Taught him how to race his greys. Which gaming hells to avoid. And once lent him money when he’d overrun his quarterly allowance. Wick had been eager to pay him back, but Glastonbury had refused to accept it. He’d become Mantheria’s husband by then. Something that had made Wick feel proud.
Now he only felt shame for telling his sister what a great gun Alexander was and encouraging the match. He’d known about Lady Dutton—but many men about town had affairs. Particularly with willing widows. Thetonusually closed its eyes to them. And so had Wick. He’d never thought that Glastonbury would be unfaithful to his beautiful sister. He’d let Mantheria down again.
Glastonbury cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Well... It turned out that the daughter of the house caught the measles, and I felt it unwise to risk carrying them back to Andrew.’
‘He dotes on you.’
The older man smiled slightly. ‘I am very lucky to be his father.’
Sunny put on a fake smile. ‘Glad I’m not a father—at least not that I am aware of.’
Wick should have passed by, but he couldn’t leave without saying something more. ‘You’re very lucky that Andrew is too young to understand what kind of man you are. What kind of husband you truly are. But someday he will, and then your son will despise you as much as I do.’
Glastonbury flinched as if Wick had indeed struck him across the face with his glove.
Wick pulled his friend away from his brother-in-law. ‘Come, Sunny, my fists are itching to hit something.’
‘I hope you don’t mean me,’ Sunny said. ‘You’ve already made my nose crooked.’
‘You gave me a black eye first.’
His friend laughed. ‘You’re right. What was the fight over, anyway? I can’t remember.’
They walked out of White’s together.
Wick shook his head. ‘A buxom barmaid in Eton, who was twice our age and considered us to be nothing but little schoolboys.’
Sunny grabbed his chest. ‘I remember now. Molly was a tasty woman.’
‘Whom neither of us tasted.’
His friend laughed loudly, and Wick couldn’t help but join him. They didn’t call for his carriage or hire a hack—instead they walked to Jem Belcher’s boxing house.
The former champion met them at the door with a crooked smile.
Sunny waved to him. ‘I’m here to learn that block against Wick’s left hook. You promised me that you would teach me how to beat him.’