at home is for spinsters.”
“I’ve done my duty,” Alex said in a clipped voice. “Paraded my carcass on Bond Street so everyone could get a good eyeful of me, let them know that Lady Emmeline’s sudden marriage has not one speck of impact on me.”
Ellingsworth grabbed the flask from Langdon and took a drink. “You did right by that, old man.” He leaned over and jabbed his knuckles into Alex’s shoulder—as close to showing affection as Ellingsworth ever got. “But your night’s not finished.” He held the flask out to Alex.
But Alex didn’t take the flask, much as he craved a drink. “It is.” He swayed with the movement of the carriage. “I can’t stomach a ball tonight, and I’m not interested in going to the theater, or anywhere else I’ve got to show a good face in wake of—” He glanced out the window. “In wake of everything that’s happened.”
“We aren’t going anywhere respectable,” Langdon said with a wink. “The people there won’t give two figs if you were jilted by a goat.”
Alex curled his lip. “I’m not going slumming.”
Jabbing a finger toward Alex, Langdon said, “Nothing but the highest company tonight. The most stylish. The most esteemed. But they’ll be too busy calculating odds to worry about whether some girl dropped you.”
“Are you drunk already?” Alex demanded. “I don’t understand any of the gibberish flapping from your lips.”
“He means that we’re going to a new gaming hell,” Ellingsworth explained. “It’s so new and fashionable it doesn’t have a name. Langdon and I were there last night, after we heard about you at White’s. The hell’s been open for a fortnight. People queue up around the block to get in.” He leaned forward. “You have to go. It’s going to be open for just a month. Then it closes shop and disappears like a faerie kingdom.”
“Haven’t heard of any new gaming hell,” Alex muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
Ellingsworth rolled his eyes. “You’ve been embroiled in le scandale de la Mademoiselle Emmeline. Doubtful that you’d know if St. Paul’s burned down. Which it hasn’t, by the by.”
“Come on, Greyland,” Langdon cajoled. “I guarantee that a night at London’s most à la mode gaming hell will raise your spirits. Wine. Cards and dice. An abundance of pretty ladies.” He said this as though the presence of lovely females was the ultimate trump card. “Join us there tonight, even if only for a few minutes.”
“What’s your alternative?” Ellingsworth added. “Geometry? Calculating the surface area of a sphere?” He feigned a yawn.
Indeed, what was Alex’s alternative? Home was huge and empty, a reminder that his attempt to fill it with a wife and children had been an utter failure. And it was in moments like this—quiet, introspective times—that thoughts of The Lost Queen couldn’t be held at bay. They flooded him like a monsoon in a tropical climate. If he didn’t keep moving, he’d drown.
He growled, “Give my driver the direction of this den of iniquity with its wine and dice.”
“And ladies,” Langdon added with a grin. He and Ellingsworth wore matching smiles of satisfaction. “You’ll have no cause to regret your decision.”
Regret. He’d done everything right. He always played by the rules, never forgetting the importance of his ducal role. He shouldn’t regret anything. But tonight, he’d loosen his grip on the reins of his ducal propriety. After all, what had being proper ever gotten him?
A spring drizzle settled over the streets, calling forth scents of wet stone and manure. The slick cobbles gleamed like onyx as pedestrians and horses picked their way over the uneven stones. London grew loud with the rain as people shouted to each other and hooves clattered.
The gaming hell was situated in a slightly raffish part of Piccadilly. It nestled between other stone-faced buildings, sporting a colonnade and the slightly overdressed look of a prosperous banker. Heavy velvet drapes concealed the windows. True to Ellingsworth’s word, well-dressed prospective guests were queued up on the curb, waiting for the doorman to admit them entrance. No one seemed to care about the rain—they were far too busy craning their necks to see how much farther they had to go before being admitted entrance.
Alex had never seen such a thing in his many years of sampling London’s entertainments. He didn’t know he could still be surprised—which was both alarming and intriguing.
The carriage drove past the queue on the way to the front door. He, Langdon, and Ellingsworth got out of the vehicle, then stood in the street, looking at the latest in gambling establishments.
“I’m not getting in line,” Alex stated flatly. The very idea that a duke would queue up like a clerk buying his luncheon was utterly foreign.
“That’s not a concern,” Langdon assured him. Leading the way, he ascended the front steps and approached a man in green livery.
“Back of the line,” the doorman said without looking at Langdon.
Langdon scowled. “I was here yesterday! With my friend.” He shook Ellingsworth by the shoulder.
“Back of the line,” the servant intoned. “Got to make room for fresh faces, fresh blunt.”
“We brought a new face with plenty of blunt,” Ellingsworth insisted. He pointed at a very irritated Alex. “This is the Duke of Greyland.”
At last, the doorman’s impassive façade cracked. His eyes widened as he reached behind him to open the door. “Right this way, Your Grace.”
“And my friends,” Alex said coolly as the other people in the queue shifted and muttered in discontent.
“May of course enter.” The doorman waved them forward.
Alex climbed the steps, then entered a foyer where another liveried servant took his coat, hat, and walking stick. The servant performed the same task for Ellingsworth and Langdon.
“Ah, Your Grace! My lords!” A man of middle years with silvering hair and an extremely amiable countenance came striding forward, his hands outstretched as if welcoming old friends even though Alex had never met the man before. Somehow, word must have already reached him from the front of the house that a duke and two other noblemen were in attendance. “Welcome! All of you are most welcome to my humble establishment.”
Humble wasn’t quite the word Alex would have used to describe the place. From the foyer, he could see into a large chamber adorned with crystal chandeliers, shining brass fixtures, equestrian paintings, and curtains fringed with gold braid. It was a cross between Carlton House and a brothel—though the two weren’t all that different from each other.
“I am Martin Hamish,” the proprietor continued, a hint of Scottish burr in his voice. “And this institution of fortune is at your disposal.” Hamish snapped his fingers, and a footman appeared with three glasses of sparkling wine, which Langdon and Ellingsworth immediately seized. Alex slowly picked up the remaining glass and sipped at the wine. He was pleasantly surprised to find it of an excellent vintage.
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