“What happened to our Thursday rule?” Dare asked in lieu of a greeting as he entered Nox’s private saloon, which the Lords of Vice used for billiards and other amusements. Frost was standing to the right of the table with one of Madame Venna’s girls. His friend had braced his hand and cue on her lovely round backside to position his shot. On the opposite side, Saint had his arm around the waist of a pretty red-headed wench. Hunter had an unknown blonde on his lap and was whispering something naughty in her ear, if her giggles were anything to go by, while her female companion watched.
Frost took his shot and gave Dare a disgruntled look. “When have any of us ever taken that rule seriously? Besides, this is not about our lovely companions, my friend.” Everyone was studiously ignoring the now drawn-out sighs coming from the sofa. “This is about billiards!”
“And a thousand guineas,” Saint added drily.
Dare poured himself a glass of brandy. “With bets like that, Frost will beggar you.”
“Oh, there are a few conditions,” Saint said, circling the table as he sized up his next maneuver. “First, our hands cannot touch the table.”
Which explains Madame V’s girls.
Even though Saint and Frost were unable to touch the table, their female companions were under no such restraint. Dare suspected his friends had come up with an amusing way to thwart the first rule.
“And second, the victor must trounce his opponent by more than five.” Saint patted his companion on the backside. “Now be a good girl, love, and admire those pretty ankles for me.”
The redhead sent a mischievous smile over her shoulder at Saint before she bent over and grabbed the front of her skirt for support. Saint shifted his stance, and placed his palm on the slender plane of her back as he positioned his cue.
“An inventive solution to your quandary, my friend,” Dare said, applauding the marquess’ ingenuity.
The blonde who had been watching Hunter dally with her friend sidled up to Dare, her gaze as intimate as a caress. “Ooo,” she cooed, sliding her hand up and down his arm. “Aren’t ye a fine one. It appears my luck ’as improved this evening.”
His hands instinctively reached for the woman as she plopped down into his lap. Dare gave Saint an exasperated look when he snickered at his friend’s awkward plight. He had not come to Nox for a willing woman, though there were plenty about the premises. After an afternoon of arguing with his father about Charles, he had craved an evening surrounded by his friends.
Dare closed his eyes as the blonde inspected his shoulders and upper arms. Thankfully he had not brought Regan with him this afternoon. He had had his hands full dealing with both his father and, later, his brother. There was no telling what mischief might have occurred if Allegra had pulled Regan aside and whispered in her ear. He had heard the unspoken question in Regan’s voice when she commented on the color of Louise’s eyes. It was not much of a leap for her to conclude that he had sired the girl. Hell, there was a hellish moment in his life when he had wondered the same thing, when it amused Allegra to torment him with the possibility.
Dare leaned to the right and placed his brandy on the table. Once his hands were free, he gently stopped the woman from sliding her hands lower than his upper chest. “Not this evening, my sweet. You will have to look elsewhere if you want your luck to improve.”
“Oh, pooh!” the woman said, exhaling noisily as Dare helped her to her feet. She glared at Frost. “That is two guineas that I owe you.”
Frost grinned lecherously at the annoyed blonde. “Don’t fret. How I collect on the debt will leave us both satisfied.”
The seams of his black frock coat strained as Dare crossed his arms. “You know Madame V frowns on you fleecing her town petticoats, Frost.”
Madame Venna was the proprietress of the Golden Pearl. Proximity and mutual respect for the Lords of Vice had resulted in a profitable business arrangement for all of them.
“And you are dreadfully boring when you are inclined to lecture. Trust me, Dare. Hattie will not lose anything that she is willing to give freely,” Frost assured him, his gaze returning to the billiards table in front of him.
Dare took a sip of his brandy, noting that they were missing several members this evening. “Where are Sin and Vane?” Although no one would mistaken him for a monk, he usually counted on Vane to amuse the wenches whom Berus sent upstairs to entertain the Lords of Vice. With Sin and Reign now married, Nox’s saloon seemed to be overflowing in town petticoats. Even Frost had his limits.
Saint hooted at the satisfying sound of ivory balls colliding. “I suspect we will see Sin later after he has given his marchioness a proper evening on the town.”
“Vane is attending the Deightons’ ball,” Hunter volunteered from the sofa.
Dare sympathized with his absent friend. “His mother appears determined to marry the gent off this season.”
“I sent him to the Deightons’,” Frost muttered, distracted by his next shot. “He is escorting Regan to the ball. That business with Fothergill and his cronies was troubling.”
Dare straightened in his chair, his pity for Vane vanishing. “Why did you choose Vane of all people?” Had Frost not seen how Vane had been fawning over Regan the night they had attended the theater? “Sin would have been a better choice.”
Glaring over his poised cue, Frost’s turquoise-blue eyes bore into him. “Sin has a pregnant wife to look after. I needed someone to look after my sister properly. As if his very life depended on it.”
That man is not Vane.
That man is—
The unfinished thought felt like a mental slap. Dare had troubles with his own family. He did not need to take on the duty of looking after Regan. It was enough that they were residing in the same town house.
As it was, Dare did not know how much intimacy he could bear without breaking. It was difficult enough to face Regan in the morning room.
He thought of Vane smiling at her. Inviting her to dance. Bastard. How many times had the scoundrel touched her without permission?
Worse, still, what if Regan encouraged it?
“Where the devil are you going?” Saint called out.
His legs had crossed the room before his rational intellect had caught up with an impulsive decision that was primitive and bordered on territorial.
Dare wanted to plant his fist into Frost’s face for being so reckless with his sister’s welfare.
“The Deightons’ ball,” he said gruffly. “Someone needs to keep an eye on Vane!”
* * *
“I absolutely adore your sweet mother,” Regan teased, enjoying the way her escort of the evening winced.
“Hush, my dear girl, not so loud,” Vane pleaded, dragging her in the opposite direction of his family for good measure. “My mother is not deaf, and she is positively desperate to marry me off to some well-mannered chit.”
Regan hid her smile behind her fan. “Well, then you are safe with me, Lord Vanewright, for my brother swears my manners have not improved during my absence.”
Vane chuckled. “Giving Frost hell for sending you off to some prissy school for ladies, are you?” He playfully pinched the tip of her nose. “Good for you! All of us thought he was unreasonable when he sent you away. I told him the kitchen fire was my fault, but he refused to listen. He kept muttering that Lady Karmack was right.”
Her smile faded as Regan remembered the old pain of that day. “It was more than the fire.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “I was not very obedient.”
Vane rolled his eyes and gave her hand a friendly pat. “And the decision to travel to London without telling Frost—that is your notion of obedience?”
“I got my way, did I not?” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “I sensed my brother would accept defeat gracefully.”
Vane shook his head. “You should not be telling me such things, my lady. An unscrupulous gentleman could demand blackmail for such honesty.”
Regan shut her fan with a snap of her wrist. “Are you claiming to be an unscrupulous gent?”
“My dear Lady Regan, unscrupulous is part of the Lords of Vice’s motto.”
She rapped him on the knuckles. Vane was being outrageously flirtatious. “I distinctly recall that hanging over the front door of Nox there is an unusual rectangular stained-glass panel that has the Latin inscription Virtus Deseritur. The translation is ‘Virtue is forsaken.’”
Vane lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “Sounds rather unscrupulous in meaning and deed.”
Regan’s mirth bubbled out like sparkling wine, comparably light and endearingly sweet. “You are a horrid man,” she murmured when she noticed that other guests were watching them. “Frost will put me on a prison hulk if you persist.”
“Well, we cannot have that, can we?” Vane said with mock sympathy. She could feel his body vibrating with silent laughter. “I know just the place where no one can accuse us of impropriety.”
“Where?”
Vane stepped away from Regan, and bowed. “Will you honor me with a dance, Lady Regan?”